The End of The Season
by razmatazz
Summary: PostRENT. Warning: Almost obsessive swearing in some chapters. Sorry. Nonslash. COMPLETED!
1. The Visit

**DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**The End of His Season**

I.

Spring mornings are exceptionally cold this year. Three friends, Maureen, Tom Collins and Joanne make their way down the street, bundled up as best as they can to get to Mark, Roger and Mimi's apartment, which they've nicknamed 'the loft', as if it were some swanky place rather than the pigsty the filmmaker and the musician have turned it into. Thank God for Mimi who cleans it up once in a while. None of them doubt that today the loft is going to be brand spanking clean.

Maureen halts by the entrance to the building, shaking her head and clutching the brand new bottle of wine they've brought with them.

"I can't do this…" she says, looking as if she's about to cry. "I can't see Roger like this…not this way…I'm not ready…"

Joanne and Collins go over to her and wrap an arm each around her shoulders.

"Oh honey…" Joanne says comfortingly. "We have to be there. Roger would want us there and so will Mark and Mimi. Baby, they need all the support they can get,"

"We can do this, Maur," Collins says, his voice trembling. "They need us. They've been there for us before. We…we owe it to Rog, eh?"

Maureen nods shakily, hastily wiping tears from her eyes.

"Yeah…okay…okay…"

She takes a deep breath and looks up at the bright April sky that promises sun despite the cold snap. From her spot, she can see the fire escape leading to Mark, Roger and Mimi's apartment, where she used to smoke and Roger used to play a guitar on and where Mark threw the keys down to Collins from...there was always someone there, because it has such a great view of the city, but today it's empty. Maureen bites back tears.

Today is April 17, 1991. Roger's 26th birthday. One of the baby boys is a year older and Maureen knows she should be happy. She should be happy for Roger, for Mimi, for Mark, for all of them. But she isn't. Her breath comes out in little white clouds as she breathes.

"I'll keep smiling for you, baby boy," she smiles, as she looks at the empty fire escape. "I'll kick your ass if you make fun of me now because this is hard. This is the hardest thing you've made me go through my whole life…"

She pauses as if she's waiting for a retort from Roger, as he always does, but instead there's a hollow silence that makes her stomach churn.

"C'mon, baby, let's go inside…"

Joanne takes Maureen and leads her towards the entrance of the building, Collins following slowly behind as he too takes a look at the fire escape with a sad, yet hopeful look in his eyes.


	2. Good Days

II.

**February 2nd, 1991**

"And here, ladies and gentlemen, is 25-year-old Roger Davis, amazingly awake at 7 in the morning and not holding his trusty Fender or any other musical instrument in his hands…"

Roger was scribbling in his journal as he sat cross-legged on their ratty old couch trying to keep warm when he heard the whirring of Mark's camera nearby, as well as Mark's voice narrating what he was doing. He narrowed his eyes at the disturbance, but didn't bother to stop writing.

"Cohen, if you know what's good for you…" he warned. It drove him nuts whenever Mark filmed him unexpectedly. The sound he heard from the camera made him want to growl. He didn't mind being filmed at times, but today he just wasn't in the mood. It was drafty in the loft, with the heating completely out and all, and he was tired. Last night hadn't been a very good one.

"It's too early in the morning, man," Roger attempted again to make Mark go away. "Go bother someone else. Maureen, for instance, so she can kill you for waking her up and then you'd never bother me again."

He stopped writing. He'd lost his train of thought just by talking to Mark. Damn it.

"It's a miracle you're up, actually. Had a good sleep?"

Roger turned around and saw Mark for the first time that morning, all dressed and ready to go to work. He was about to say 'No, so quit bugging me and go to work already' but changed his mind. Mark was right about it being uncommon that he was up so early. Usually, he'd lie in, trying to get warm since their blankets were so miserable. Mimi wasn't of any help with the warmth because she stayed out until late and, when she'd come home, Roger would have already trembled himself to sleep. No, last night hadn't been a good night definitely. In fact, he'd barely slept and had been on the couch, writing, since 3 fucking AM. But he wasn't going to tell Mark that. The little guy was a worrywart. Too much for his own good, actually. Roger didn't want to trouble him any further.

Instead of replying to Mark's question, Roger looked away again and picked up his journal and pen in an attempt to continue where he'd stopped writing.

"New song, Rog?" he heard the guy he once admitted to himself was probably his most loyal and best friend ask. He didn't reply. Instead, he willed his mind to remember the words that he'd been running through his mind just moments before to surface.

_Whirrrrrr…_

That fucking camera.

Without much thought, Roger made a grab for the orange throw pillow that sat in front of him and hurled it at Mark without looking. His aim, surprisingly, was accurate and he smiled in spite of himself as a "Whoa!" and a _thump _sounded, signaling Mark had fallen to the floor, unprepared for the unexpected attack. He turned around and laughed as he saw his flatmate on his back, looking dazed. He knew that Mark, scrawny as he was, would retaliate, so he braced himself.

"Mark Cohen, doing one of his graceful exits," he mockingly narrated, still grinning. Roger watched as Mark sat up, grabbed the throw pillow and got ready to go into battle.

"Oh, you're going down, Davis!" Mark declared, smiling widely, a wild, almost childish, gleam in his eyes. He set the camera down on a pile of newspapers that were on the floor next to him. Roger grabbed for another pillow on the couch. It was a wimpy one, since it was smaller than what Mark had and had those girly tassels on them (he suspected it was Mimi's), but he took it all the same.

"ARRRGGGHHH!"

"AUUUGGHHHH!"

Mark charged at him from the floor and they both tumbled from the couch to the ground. They'd been doing this since their school days. It was fucking crazy, how they'd suddenly charge at each other whenever they felt like it and start rolling on the ground. No one had ever fixed rules for it but they had mutually agreed that whenever one started, the main objective was to get either one of them to say "Uncle!", which Roger usually won, since Mark had always been smaller than he was. It was insane and people had always thought they were fighting whenever they were seen. Hell, their mothers had even thought it and Mark's mother had accused him, Roger, of being a bully. They had both laughed at the idea. Living in Scarsdale as an only child had bored Roger to death and he'd been glad Mark Cohen had moved in to share his misery. Why the hell would he bully the kid, geeky as he may have been, when Mark was the only guy in their neighborhood who was able to understand who he really was? He owed a lot to the guy.

"OW! Shit, Roger, that hurt!"

"Get off me!"

Mark was sitting on his chest like the nimrod he was. Roger fought to push him off. They hit each other with the pillows repeatedly and without fear (Mark had put his glasses away which was good because those things ruined everything once they broke…Roger had already seen just how damage broken glasses could cause and neither him nor Mark cared to go through a predicament like it again). Roger managed to get out from under Mark and reversed their positions.

"HAH! You're DEAD!" he said triumphantly.

"Not if I can help it!"

They were in the middle of the fight when he heard his bedroom door creak open followed by the sounds of feet in slippers shuffling on the floorboards towards the kitchen. His heart gave a small flutter, knowing well who it was though he didn't have to look.

"G'morning, guys," Mimi's sleepy voice cut sweetly through their grunts and yelps and growls as they continued to beat the hell out of each other using the pillows. "Baby, be careful. Don't hurt yourselves,"

"Sure babe," Roger smiled at his girlfriend, who he thought looked beautiful dressed in an old kimono that highlighted her bronze skin and who had her curls tumbling freely down her back in a loose mass of mahogany waves. She smiled back at him as she slinked past the kitchen counters, his coffee mug raised to her lips.

"Aaaaw, baby," Mark laughed, getting a clear hit of Roger's head during the distraction. His usually pasty skin was a mottled pink from all their roughhousing.

"Shut up, Mark." Roger turned his attention back to his so-called best friend and forced him to lie on his stomach.

"Ow ow ow! UNCLE! UNCLE!" yelled Mark as Roger finally got the filmmaker's arm bent in the way he knew would make him go crazy from the pain but not seriously hurt him. "I'll have you yell 'Uncle' someday, Roger, I swear!"

"Yeah, you wish," Roger laughed as he got off of Mark. The fight was over. He helped Mark sit back up as the filmmaker rubbed his arm.

"Baby, stop bullying Marky. You might seriously hurt him," Mimi admonished gently from her spot in the kitchen.

"Don't worry, Mimi, he can never hurt me. He doesn't have the guts," Mark said, mock punching him on the arm.

"Yeah, right, Cohen. You'd probably send your mother running after me with a broom again," Roger laughed.

"Honestly, Meems, I've broken several bones I didn't even know a person could break since I met Roger Davis," Mark said, putting on a pity-me act. "I'm telling you, he's unsafe to be around with."

"Aaaw, poor baby," Mimi said, approaching the two of them sitting on the floor. She bent over Mark and kissed him on the cheek. Mark glanced at Roger and gave him a wink and a smile as she did so. "Is that better?"

"Hey!" Roger said playfully, though he didn't fully appreciate the fact that his girlfriend had kissed his best friend.

"Much better, Meems, thanks…but I think my other cheek's swollen where Roger hit it…"

Roger was about to throw another pillow at Mark's direction when their phone rang. Mimi thankfully quit on Mark (though she did give him another kiss on his other cheek) and went back to her coffee. None of them bothered to get the phone. At the ungodly morning hour, it was probably someone any of them wouldn't want to deal with. Mrs. Cohen, for example. Roger suspected that whenever the woman was bored she'd just pick up the phone and call them. It was insane.

"_Speak!" _the answering machine said. Roger braced himself to hear Mark's mother's voice but was relieved when Joanne's filled the loft.

"Hey, all of you lazybones. I know you're all there and unwilling to pick up this phone. Don't forget to shop for food before you all starve. Do you guys still have enough money for that? Mark, give me a call if you need a hand, okay? I mean _nutritious _food, you guys. No blowing off of money on Twinkies and soda like last time. Roger and Mimi, take your AZTs, all right? No forgetting. Pay your bills too. You know how Benny gets. I'll see you guys later, okay? Wrap up too since it's cold and we all know just how great the heating is at your place. Maureen and I have extra socks and scarves here if y'all need them. Just give us a call."

The call ended and Roger lay on his back on the floor, exhausted from his and Mark's fight. Joanne sounded more like a mother every day. Maureen could be too at times and whenever Collins was in town he joined in on their boat and acted like a father, even when he didn't really mean to. It drove him crazy sometimes, but it was nice and comforting in its own weird way. He heard Mimi laugh.

"How'd she know about the Twinkies and soda? Collins is such a tattletale," she said.

"Well she's right as always. About time we bought food again. We'll catch food poisoning already if we keep on eating the stuff that's in the fridge. I'll drop by the supermarket later. You guys want anything?" Mark said, getting to his feet and brushing the dust off of his pants.

"No more Cap'n Crunch, please," Roger groaned from his spot on the floor. He'd had enough of the stuff. They'd been eating it for the longest time as if it were part of their religions.

"How about chocolate milk?" he heard Mimi ask hopefully. Typical Mimi. No matter how much she denied it, she was still pretty much the kid she really was. Roger smiled at the thought.

"Yeah, Marky. Chocolate milk would be great," he agreed. He hadn't had chocolate milk in a billion years. Well, not really. The last time he'd had some was when he was eight years old. "And some macaroni and cheese while you're at it,"

"We should ask your mother to bring down some if you want some so badly," Mark teased, knowing pretty well how disgusting a cook his mother was. Roger had spent majority of his life in Scarsdale after the Cohens moved in eating at Mark's' house just so his stomach would be saved from having to forcefully digest whatever gloop his mother came up with.

"Shut up."

"You be good little kids and take your AZTs at the right times and I'll get you your chocolate milk and mac n' cheese. Right now, I gotta get to work," Roger watched as Mark wound the black-and-white striped scarf around his pale neck, his precious camera already in his hands. Sometimes he wanted to tear the thing off of Mark since it was almost ridiculous how the filmmaker was never without it. It was some sort of lucky charm, he supposed. Mark's grandmother had given it to him one Christmas. "You guys gonna be okay here?"

"I have to head for work too in a while. The Life doesn't like it when I'm late," Mimi said. She'd quit on her work at the Cat Scratch a few weeks after Angel died, and Roger could say all of them, especially him, were happy with the decision. Mimi was starting to look as young as she really was, despite the virus, since she started working in a 'healthier' environment. Hell, the Life wasn't Heaven on earth but it was definitely better than the Cat Scratch. At night, Mimi went to a class so she could at least still learn while there was still time. They'd all been supportive of the idea, since they all believed that education was still vital. Roger felt guilty sometimes that both Mimi and Mark had to get jobs just so they could pay for the medication he needed. Mimi still needed the AZTs too of course but after her brush with death, she turned out to be a lot healthier than they all expected. It was him who needed the AZT and other medicines more. He'd tried to get a job before but he could never keep them because he was never consistently healthy. Now he depended on his friends for his survival and he hated the feeling, even though they were more than willing to help. He wasn't a fucking cripple, for God's sakes. He hated being so helpless when he was so used to doing everything for himself.

"You going out, Rog?" he heard Mimi ask, knocking him out of his stupor.

"Uhhh…" Roger paused to think. "Maybe not,"

"You feeling okay?" he heard Mark ask worriedly from the front door. Great. Fuck. He had to be careful not to turn anything into an issue the poor guy would worry over.

"I'll live, Pooky," replied Roger, using Mark's most hated nickname and a tone he hoped would convince Mark. He laughed as he felt another pillow hit him.

"Shut up. Okay, you guys, gimme a call if you need anything. I'm running late," Mark told them.

"Okay," both he and Mimi said. Roger heard the door close, then heard as Mimi approached him. She lay down next to him on the floor and rested her head on his chest. She smelled of sleep, coffee and strawberry shampoo. Roger breathed in her scent, loving how it made him feel so safe and comfortable, and held her close, kissing the top of her head.

"Are you really feeling okay, baby?" she asked softly. "You had a rough night last night,"

She looked up at him, her beautiful brown eyes gentle like a puppy's. He could drown in her eyes, drown in the love she knew she had for him. Just looking at her reminded him always of how much love he was actually capable of, which at first surprised him once he realized he loved Mimi more than he'd loved April. He kissed her again.

"How'd you know that?" he asked.

"You kept tossing. Then you got up several times. I don't remember if you ever came back to bed after the nth time you got up. Couldn't you sleep?"

He sighed. "I don't know. I was just tired but I couldn't sleep for some reason. But I'm okay. Really. Don't worry so much, babe. It's unbecoming,"

Mimi laughed and kissed him on the lips.

"I love you, babe," she told him, their faces so close the ends of their noses touched.

"I love you too," he told her and he meant it. Mimi ran a hand through his hair, getting some of it out of his face. He loved the way she did it, with her fingers going in and out of the strands and her nails tickling his scalp.

"Get some sleep after I leave. I'll pass by Joanne's and Maureen's and grab a couple of those socks so you can keep warm," Mimi told him.

"I'll be fine, babe…" Roger kissed her again. "I love you."

"Sweet talk won't get you out of this one, Roger Davis. You're going to bed to get some sleep. I'll check on you around lunchtime and bring you a little food, okay?" Mimi said, getting to her feet and pulling him up with her.

"Mmmkay, Mommy," he teased. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend's waist and reminded himself for the nth time not to do anything to fuck what they had up, his exhaustion having disappeared the minute Mimi cuddled up next to him.


	3. The Beginning of the End

III.

**February 3rd, 1991**

It was nighttime and Roger felt as if he were in the desert. He sat up on the bed, careful not to wake Mimi, in an attempt to make his body feel cooler. He felt the cold floorboards under his bare feet and the draft that caught his legs, making him shiver. It was an unwelcome feeling. Now he felt as if he were in the fucking Arctic. Shit.

He felt his forehead for a fever and was irritated upon discovering he had a temperature. His head throbbed and he took a deep breath. He was getting tired of this.

He stood up and got his sweatshirt out for him to keep warm. The loft was spinning as he made his way towards the kitchen and he felt as if he wanted to puke. By some miracle, he managed to seat himself in one of the chairs by the fridge.

Milk. He needed milk. It was the only thing he could stomach whenever he felt like shit.

The light from the fridge almost blinded him but it was all made up for once he saw that Mark had kept his promise and had bought chocolate milk. Unconsciously, a giant smile crept across his face as he got the carton and his mug out. Good old Marky. What a pal.

He poured himself a little chocolate milk and took small sips as he curled up on the couch. Another draft caught him and he shivered more violently, almost making him drop the mug. Fucking hell. Now he felt as if he were out in the snow without any clothes on. Damn it, was he getting sick again? Fuck fuck fuck.

Roger placed the mug on the floor, not trusting his hand to hold on to it much longer. He hugged himself in an attempt to keep warm but he only felt cold. Where the hell was the draft coming from? He felt pain as his muscles cramped up from the shivering. Oh God, he needed Mimi…but he knew he couldn't have her come and see him that way. He was sick, sure, but he was no selfish bastard. He could deal with this by himself. He always did…

His stifled moans echoed softly throughout the apartment and thankfully, neither Mark nor Mimi heard a thing.


	4. A Song For An Angel

IV.

**February 9th, 1991**

Blow Your Candles  
By Roger Davis 

_Hey, buddy, so what's it like  
__Playin' with the angels there and drummin' with the saints?  
__Are there artists in heaven and do they paint the sunsets?  
__And what do the musicians do? Say 'hi' to old Morrison for me. _

_Hey, buddy, it's been a year since you went  
__And we're still waitin' for a letter from you,  
__You ass, did you forget? But we didn't and that's why  
__I wrote this one for you._

_So buddy what're you waitin' for?  
__There're your candles, from the fire of the stars  
__And you'd better blow them soon.  
__Won't be long now, buddy, won't be long. _

_Slap my ass when I get there so I know I'm not alone._

Roger stared at the song he'd just written almost in disbelief. He wrote a lot of songs, he just never played them all. In a day, he could write about five half-finished ones. On a good day, when he was feeling excellent and his brain was malfunctioning properly, he could write probably about one or two complete songs. He was never a fan of those long, philosophical-like lyrics. Instead he preferred about 10-15 lines, maybe even with no rhymes in them at all. On bad days, he couldn't even find the strength to pick up a pen from the pain, which frustrated him to death because his brain would be coming up with all those fantastic tunes and words and he couldn't put them down. If Mark needed to have his camera and Mimi constantly needed to let her hair down and dance, he had to always have a pen and paper nearby. All his friends often offered to help him during the bad days but he knew there was never going to be a way that they could.

_Had it really been a year…?_

"Baby, are you ever going to let me see your journal?" he heard Mimi ask suddenly from behind him, sidling up on the window seat next to his spot.

Mimi always wondered what he wrote in his journal but she'd never opened it once. Roger had never warned her to not touch it, but she let him have his privacy all the same. Once in a while though, she'd get really curious.

"Mmhm?" he said distractedly, wrapped up in his thoughts.

"Just a peek, maybe?"

Roger looked up at his girlfriend, breaking loose from the piece he'd just written. Thank God too, because he was starting to feel depressed again.

"Do you want to see it?" he asked. Mimi looked surprised.

"Well…if I could…yeah," she said carefully. She pulled her legs closer to her chest as if she were cold and rested her chin on her knees. "I want to get to know you…better, if I could…do you write songs there?"

Roger shut his journal and smiled. "Yeah…"

"Well, could you sing one? Because you do make great stuff…I loved that song that you made for me," Mimi returned his grin and bit her lower lip. She was beautiful. Roger wanted to kiss her but held himself back.

"I can't," he told her. "Not anymore."

"Why not?" she asked.

"I don't know…I just don't feel like singing anymore…like something's missing and I can't bring it back. Something that made me sing. When I try to, it just doesn't feel right…"

Ever since his teen years, he'd written down his memories and tributes as songs, which was why his song making had never stopped, even after he was able to write Mimi's song. He'd had a dry spell for a bit, after April went, but after he'd made 'Your Eyes', his songwriting seemed to regain lost speed and time since he was able to write every day. But he never sang again. He just played the empty tunes on his guitar now and then, but never accompanied them with their respective lyrics.

Mimi held his face in her soft hands.

"What's wrong, baby?"

Roger felt tears sting his eyes. Great. He didn't want Mimi to think her boyfriend was such a wuss. He seemed to be crying a lot these days since pain was unnaturally a frequent visitor especially at night, though he'd yet to tell someone. It was nothing. Fuck. It had to be nothing.

"I just finished another song about Angel," he said quietly. "Today would've been his 24th birthday…"

He'd performed for Angel before, some days before he…she died. He'd written it just the night before Angel heard it, while he was alone in the bathroom, crying, feeling the fear of losing someone he cared for as well as for his own mortality. How did it go again? The memory of his own trembling voice singing by Angel's bedside sounded hollow inside his mind:

…_now why the hell are you leaving?  
__Who told you that the time was right?  
__I thought I was crazy to know someone like you  
__But now I know not everyone's as lucky  
__To have an Angel by their side…_

Mimi's expression changed and Roger could see that she was affected by the news. She looked terribly sad all of a sudden and, before he knew it, she'd wrapped him in a hug and he was crying on her shoulder.

Fuck. He was scared out of his wits. He was feeling vulnerable again. Angel had been there one day and gone the next, without so much as a goodbye, and it still hurt to remember. Sometimes he forgot there had ever been an Angel in their lives and when he realized it, he wanted to punch himself. How could he dare to forget such a good friend, even if they had only been for a year? What was going to happen to him after he was gone? Would Mark and Mimi forget him like he forgot Angel once in a while? Fuck.

"I'm scared, Meems…" he admitted to her in a whisper. She just held him tighter.

"I'm scared too…" she told him softly, stroking his hair. "Don't stop, baby. Your music is what makes you 'you'. Angel wouldn't want that. She loved how you sang, too. Remember, she was always happy whenever you would…I remember that song you sang to him when she was at the hospital. You keep her alive through that song, just like I'm going to keep living after I'm gone, thanks to 'Your Eyes'…"

Roger closed his eyes and just held Mimi close to him, taking in her warmth, her scents, never wanting to let her go.

_When I had nothing, I was at the prime of my fucking life, _he thought bitterly, _Now, when I have everything, one mistake is going to take me away from it all. _

Maybe today wasn't such a good day after all.

**A/N: Thanksto all those who already reviewed! Cookies and ice cream for you:D**


	5. Basketball

**A/N: Sorry I haven't been updating. Something was up with the site and I couldn't log in. Hehe. But that doesn't mean I haven't been working! I've changed the summary since I finally figured out where the story's headed. Thanks to all those who've reviewed!I'll hurrythe uploadingup since I'm already onPart 2 so you guys can read a lot more about our favorite rock and roll prince. :) Adios, amigos!**

V.

**February 11th , 1991**

_Clink! Swish! Clink!_

Roger went after the basketball as it sailed down from the net to the concrete, his breath coming out of his mouth in the form of clouds. Dragon's breath, he and Mark had called it when they were kids. He smiled at the memory of him arguing with the little geek about which one of them it was that had bigger dragon's breath. Mark's older sister, Cindy, had resolved it by saying yeah yeah both of them had breaths that smelled so bad it was seen, but so what. After she'd said that they shut up for good about it.

He got the ball and dribbled it a few times, preparing for another shot. Jesus, it was cold. He had been there only for a little while but already he felt as if he were getting frostbite, as well as the all-too familiar shivers that crept up and down his spine. Mimi had made him wear three layers of clothing as well as a coat and still he was shivering. Normally he'd lambast himself by calling himself a big pussy, but the thought of him never feeling warm enough chewed on him a bit. Fevers came and went too but they were the least of his problems. Lately his chest had been feeling a little tight, too. Maybe he should see a doctor…

_Whiiirrrrr…_

Roger rolled his eyes at the familiar sound and turned around. Sure enough, Mark was there behind the chain link fence, on his way home from work. It was already night out but Roger could see him clearly with the help of the spotlights that surrounded the public court.

"Give it _up, _Mark!" he said as he dribbled the ball some more. He made a jumper with it but it hit the rim and bounced off from the net. Damn. His skills were slipping. Roger jogged after the ball and dribbled it back to the center of the court.

"Up for one-on-one?" Mark challenged, the camera still running. Roger had to stop dribbling and turn to look at his best friend. The filmmaker had entered the court through the open gate and was approaching him, his bike leaning on the fence.

"You're challenging me?" Roger asked him mockingly. He held the ball between his arm and his hip then brushed a lock of his hair back to keep it from falling into his face. "Did I hear you right, Cohen?"

Fleeting memories of him and Mark as they'd played ball in the driveway of the Davis house ran through his mind. Before he taught Mark, the poor guy was terrible on the court. As they got older, Roger had seen some improvements and Mark could play a fair enough game. It astounded him, however, to no end whenever Mark challenged him because most of the time, he (Mark) would end up on the concrete, howling about a broken nose or some other bone he'd (Roger) apparently broken. In short, Mark always lost and always managed to get hurt in the process. They hadn't played in a long while though…

"I don't want to hurt you again, Marky Pooky," Roger smiled evilly.

"You and me, Davis," Mark answered confidently. If he were one of the Scarsdale bullies they'd known and encountered back then, Roger would have been proud. But he guessed that if, at that moment, they never knew each other, Mark wouldn't even come near him or look at him, even if he were good at basketball and desperate for a game. The guy was a wimp and his social skills depended on the person he was face-to-face with. Had been that way his whole life. Strangely though, Mark Cohen was one of the few brave people Roger knew, even far braver than he was, now that he thought about it.

He watched as Mark turned off the camera and set it down. "Whaddya say?"

Roger grinned cheekily at him with one eyebrow raised then threw the ball in his direction. Mark caught it easily, his hands slapping sharply against the leather. Roger had to grin. Eighteen years ago Mark Cohen wouldn't have even thought of catching the thing. He'd have just stood there, wince in anticipation and get hit, then go crying to his mother. Roger felt like Yoda. At least he was able to teach the guy something, the same way Mark had labored to teach him French and Science during highschool.

"You're on," Roger took his place on the court and attempted to block Mark. "What's the game?"

"H.O.R.S.E. Only, let's spell it A-N-G-E-L," Mark said, dribbling the ball in front of his legs. Roger nodded mutely. He couldn't have thought of a better game.

Roger got the first two letters in easily, but Mark put up a good fight and managed to tie the score in a matter of minutes. If he were in better shape, Roger would have creamed his best friend, would have cheated a little by tackling even, because that's how their basketball was played. But as Mark slipped past him to shoot G, he was already breathless and struggling to stay on his feet. He felt as if someone were sitting on his chest even though he was standing up.

_Clink! Swish! Clink!_

"Oh yeah! There's the 'G'!" Mark raised his arms triumphantly.

"Mark…" Roger wheezed. "Hey man, we gotta stop a bit…I…I have to catch my breath…"

He let himself fall to his knees on the ground and laid his palms on the damp concrete, feeling himself break out in a cold sweat. Roger bent his head and closed his eyes, concentrating on how he was going to regain his breath. He was so tired all of a sudden and felt like he had fucking asthma. He'd never even had asthma before but Mark had and he'd seen how Mark had had trouble breathing before. He suspected it felt exactly the same way he was feeling now.

He heard Mark's footsteps running towards him and a hand was placed on his back.

"Hey, Rog? You okay? Oh my God, are you all right?"

"Shut up…shut up…" Roger tried to snap. "I'm…I'm fine, I swear."

"What's the matter? Do I need to call someone? Fuck, what's wrong?" Mark was totally losing it, he could tell. His voice was starting to sound strained. To convince him, Roger smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand.

"Chill out…I just got…a little breathless, that's all,"

There. He could breathe again. But as soon as he drew a deep one in, he started coughing. And they weren't normal petite coughs either. They were booming, hoarse ones that made Roger want to gag, like someone was sticking fingers down his throat. He had to struggle to breathe because the coughs came in so fast and one after the other that it didn't leave enough time for him to draw oxygen. By the time it was over, he was practically facedown on the concrete, grasping his chest and wheezing.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck!" Mark was saying. "Shit, I have to call an ambulance…"

"NO!" Roger wheezed. "I'm okay!"

He lay there for a while, getting his breaths steady and making sure he wasn't going to cough again. He sat up after a while slowly with Mark's help, feeling his hands shaking and his body trembling. Mark knelt beside him, still blathering away about the need for them to call an ambulance. Roger tuned him out. He held his head in his hands, feeling a constant throbbing in his skull that wasn't there a while ago. He wanted a smoke. Hell. He'd never been so scared. Shit, he'd felt like he was dying. That he was going to fucking _die _there in front of Mark on a basketball court. Shit. He couldn't think of timing worse than that.

"Oh God…oh God…" he whispered as soon as he'd calmed down enough. "That…motherfucking …_scared _me…"

He couldn't see Mark's face since he didn't lift his head, but he was sure the poor guy's must've looked terrible. Whenever Mark was agitated his face became a pale gray, and he'd look like he was about to throw up. He felt Mark's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm taking you to the hospital now," he declared in a forcefully loud voice. Roger shook his head and looked up at Mark. Even though he could see that Mark pretended he wasn't, he knew that the filmmaker was shaking as badly as he was. His lips were pressed tight and in his eyes Roger saw a deep concern that made him feel guilty. He had never seen his Mark so terrified before and he immediately felt apologetic for causing the anxiety. Fuck, he hated giving his friends more problems in addition to the ones they already had.

"No…I'm great, Marky, I'm fine…let's just rest here a while…"

"No, Rog, you're coming with me, you jerk…"

"NO, Mark, damn it!" he snapped, jerking away from Mark's hold. He stayed where he was then hugged his knees to his chest. He was deeply upset as his mind replayed like a sick IMAX movie the moments when he fought to get air into his lungs. It had felt like drowning, only he was on land. He could remember how, in his panic, he'd thought of Mimi and how much he loved her and how he didn't want to leave her behind. How, when he left the loft a while ago, he should've kissed her longer since he might never see her again. He'd thought of other things too: Angel, April, Mark and how he was going to be left behind…he'd even thought of his parents and how his mother was going to react to the news that he'd died and how his father would be the bastard he was and maybe even say "Serves him right". He closed his eyes. To his surprise, he felt tears squeeze out. Fuck. He had to face it. He wasn't fine.

"Roger…"

"Look, man, I don't need a doctor right now…" Roger interrupted, feeling a little pissed at the persistence. He looked up again after having discreetly wiped away his tears and stared at Mark. When he saw how upset the filmmaker also was, he looked down at his sneakers, not able to stand seeing his best friend also suffer.

"I don't need to be analyzed or prodded or whatever…they can't tell me anything new anyway…"

He wanted to tell Mark how he felt. How he felt more and more afraid as his life slowly came to an end. How he knew there was nothing anyone could ever do no anymore matter how many prayers or wishes were said, because he was dying and he would go on dying even if he went to the doctor's every single fucking day. How it was hopeless and how he felt it now that fact had just slapped him in the face. He wanted to tell Mark, but he knew he couldn't. Not today, at least.

"Please, can we not go this once?" he pleaded softly. "I need…I don't need a doctor. Not now. I'll…I'll see one okay? But not now, please…I just need some company…I'm fucking scared, man, you know?"

Roger didn't look up at Mark as he spoke, feeling a little embarrassed about saying somewhat what he felt. He'd expected Mark to still force him into going to the doctor, but by some bejeezus miracle, Mark just sat down beside him almost dejectedly.

"I'm here for you, Rog, you know that, don't you?" he said in his sincere, Mark way. Roger knew the filmmaker understood and, God, he was thankful.

"Yeah…yeah I know. Thanks," Roger nodded, thinking how lucky he was to have Mark Cohen as a best friend despite the fucking camera he usually hid behind often.

It took a while before any of them spoke again.

"Hey, man…"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell Mimi about this, okay? I don't want her to worry…"

Silence.

"Swear on it, Mark."

"I won't if you keep your part of the deal and go to the doctor as soon as possible…"

"Thanks."

Silence.

"Let's go home."


	6. Headache, Fever and Chicken Cordon Bleu

**A/N: Told you I'd hurry it up. Haha! Enjoy! (P.S. For some reason I kept referring to Angel as a 'he/him' so when I noticed it, I just changed it all to a 'she/her' since they accept her that way anyway. Hope you guys don't mind that.  
**  
VI.

**February 13th, 1991**

He walked around in the loft, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans to warm them. Mark and Mimi had gone to work, leaving him alone to listen to the cold February wind whistling in and out of the holes in the walls and windows. Roger didn't mind the solitude. He loved to be alone. It was when he worked best. Hell, it was when all artists worked best. Sometimes Mark even locked them out of the loft for days on end just so he could edit one of his stupid films.

Roger shivered as another draft blew in and brushed his neck like the end of an icy finger. He wanted to get warm, but there weren't enough blankets. Sighing, he got his guitar out of the room and went over to the sofa. He sat down and attempted to play, but his fingers were too cold so everything he could come up with turned up nasty. He felt frustrated. Usually, playing his guitar warmed him up because he could stop thinking about how cold he was for a while just by losing himself in the music. Now his only escape had turned him down.

He set the instrument down on the floor and lay on the couch, feeling exhaustion creeping into his bones again. He was so tired and wished sleep would finally claim him after evading him the whole night the night before. There wasn't anything else he could do today anyway. His fingers weren't in the mood for playing and he was too beat to get out of the loft. Sleep was the only option.

Surprisingly, it didn't take long for him to get knocked out, but not long after he'd closed his eyes did Roger feel someone covering him with a warm, thick blanket.

"Mimi…" he mumbled, forcing his eyes open. He shivered as he felt the warmth he'd craved to have in the longest while for the first time. He squinted his eyes at the person standing over him, realizing it wasn't Mimi.

What the hell… 

Angel smiled at him as she stood there, smoothing the blanket out. Roger almost jumped out of his skin. He didn't know what to say but he was definitely scared shitless. Angel looked fine and he wouldn't have been so scared, if only he didn't know as well as everybody did that Angel had already died.

"You're…you're…" he stammered, almost punching himself for not being able to talk straight. He was talking like an idiot. He fought to sit up but Angel put a delicate finger to her lips and placed a cool hand on his forehead, calming him. Her hand smelled of lotion and it was so comforting that it made his eyelids feel heavy.

"Go back to sleep, honey," she told him gently as if he were a kid. "You need it,"

"A-A-Angel," he managed to choke out before sleep claimed him again.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

"Baby…babe, wake up,"

Roger groaned as he felt someone lightly shake him awake. He felt cold again and, upon placing his hand to his chest, discovered that the blanket Angel had placed on him was gone. He opened his eyes and blearily stared at Mimi, who stood worriedly over him.

"Meems…?" he said, wondering if he should consider her as a dream. Where was he? He was in his bedroom…wasn't he just in the living room? With Angel? He groaned. His head felt heavy and he felt hot and sore all over.

"Where's Angel?" he asked, feeling confused. Mimi's expression fell as she stroked his face.

"Rog…what are you talking about?" she said, and helped him sit up. Roger ran a hand through his hair, feeling more bewildered by the second. Where was Angel? Why was Mimi there and why was he in his bed and not on the sofa?

"I was on the sofa…I fell asleep there," he told her. "How'd I get here?"

"Babe, when I left you, you were already sleeping here. You were never asleep on the sofa. I've only been gone for about an hour…I only came back to check on you 'cause I was worried…you had a temperature when I left," she placed a hand on his forehead and he noticed for the first time that he was shaking. Fuck. Not again.

"You still have a fever. C'mon, get back to sleep. I'll give Mark a call so he can pick up some aspirin on the way home…" she told him, rubbing his shoulders. "Do you need more blankets?"

No. He already felt like he was in an oven. He wiped sweat off of his forehead and shook his head at Mimi.

"I'll be fine…" he said, coming to his senses. How could he think that Angel had been there? Angel was gone and he was never coming back…maybe it had all been a dream. But it had seemed so fucking real that Roger got goose bumps the more he thought about it. "I just need sleep, that's all."

"You don't want me to stay with you?"

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I'm fine, babe. I'll just stay here and rest. I promise,"

Mimi looked hesitant about leaving him but Roger was persistent. He felt ridiculous that she felt she had to stand guard over him just because he was a little warm. He'd been through it before and it was nothing he couldn't handle by himself.

"Okay, but you just lie there and don't move, okay?" Mimi made him lie back down. "Mark will be home before you know it and if you need anything you just give any of us a call."

She signaled towards the phone he had in his bedroom, set on a stool near his bed for easy access.

"If I can't reach any of you guys I know how to dial 911," Roger joked.

"Don't talk like that, Roger!"

"I'm kidding, Meems," he smiled at her. Mimi was looking at him strangely. "What?"

"I woke you up because you were moaning in your sleep. Were you dreaming of Angel? You were saying her name…and you asked where she was when I woke you up," she asked, tucking a tuft of her hair behind her ear. Roger shrugged.

"It was nothing. I…I just saw her here…in the loft, I mean. That's it. It must've been a dream," he told her, not wanting her to worry any longer. He didn't want her to think he was crazy. Mimi nodded.

"Maybe you just miss her, babe," she said softly, stroking his hair.

"Yeah…I do," Roger admitted, though some years ago he wouldn't have. It was so surreal at times how he was one person during one part of his life and a different one the next. The Roger Davis he knew ten years ago wouldn't even come near any person who he thought was homosexual. Knowing himself, he'd have probably even joined in persecuting one at that age, if he'd come across any of those groups that bashed gays. But now, after meeting people like Collins and Angel, and Maureen and Joanne, even the very idea of calling them names made him sick to his stomach.

"We'll talk about her later, if you like. If you feel better by that time, that is," Mimi offered. She'd always been the firm believer of expressing emotions. Roger believed it too, but in the sense that he expressed them through music. Mimi loved doing so just by saying everything she felt out in the open, which wasn't really his thing. But since he was so tired and generally not feeling very well, he agreed.

"Okay,"

"Okay. I'll stay here 'til you fall asleep,"

Normally he wouldn't want her to since he didn't want her boss at the Life getting mad at her or something, but he just agreed, feeling his eyelids start to droop again. Somehow, he felt better whenever Mimi or one of his friends was there. His throat tickled, but he managed to suppress the cough that was already on its way up. Thankfully it came out as something pathetic, so Mimi didn't really regard it as something worth worrying about.

"Poor baby," he heard Mimi say and felt a light kiss brush his nose.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

Mark woke him up the next time, holding two white pills in one hand and a glass of water in another.

"Hey, Rog, sorry I have to wake you…but you gotta take your AZTs, man. Mimi called me up and said you weren't so hot so I figured you would be having a hard time waking up to your beeper to take your meds…"

Roger groaned and covered his head with the blanket Mimi had draped over him. He still wasn't feeling so well, but he felt better than he had had when Mimi had been there.

"Go away, Mark," he said. His head was throbbing. The dream he'd had of Angel was quickly fading from his mind since his last nap had been devoid of any dreams. "I'm okay,"

"Don't be such an ass, Rog. C'mon, you know you need them…" Mark nudged his shoulder.

"No."

"Roger…" Mark sighed. "C'mon…lighten the guilt trip for me,"

"What the hell are you talking about, Cohen?" Roger peeked out from under the blanket.

"I feel like I made you sick since we had that one-on-one game. You should've told me you weren't up to it, you jerk,"

"Shut up, Mark, I was up to it. This isn't your fault,"

He knew the filmmaker wouldn't be able to forgive himself should anything happen, so Roger quickly took the AZTs from Mark and popped them into his mouth as if he were popping Tic-Tacs.

"See? I'm okay, Stop beating yourself up,"

Honestly, he knew Mark had been beating himself up since Day One after he was diagnosed with AIDS. Roger had literally gone out and punched him when he didn't quit blaming himself for "not knowing" that he (Roger) and April had been doing crack. It was the stupidest yet most selfless thing Roger had ever heard. He'd guessed it came with the long friendship, feeling guilty for the consequences each one had to go through from every stupid mistake they made as individuals. Mark had never given him anything major to worry over and it pissed Roger to hell that Mark felt so responsible about him getting AIDS. He wanted to bash his own head in sometimes, realizing just how much shit he'd put them both in.

"Have you gone to the doctor's yet?"

"No,"

"Roger!"

"Well, I can't now, can I? Even if I wanted to neither of you guys would let me get past my own bedroom door."

"Well…yeah, you have a point…but seriously, see one, okay? We had a deal, remember?"

"Yeah yeah…" Roger waved him off.

Mark sat quietly beside the bed for a while as if he was thinking if he was going to say what was on his mind out loud.

"What are you thinking about?" Roger asked, sitting up. Mark looked almost embarrassed.

"How'd you know I was thinking of something?"

Roger rolled his eyes. For such a smart person, Mark could be such a dork sometimes.

"You were getting that look on your face that's a mix between your I'm-constipated look and your Fuck-I-think-Roger's-really-gone-over-his-head expression. That, my friends, is what's called the Mark-Cohen-is-thinking look,"

"Shut up," Mark told him, though Roger could tell he was trying hard not to laugh. Good. There was enough misery as it was and they all needed a few smiles now and then.

"Mimi told me that…you were talking about Angel?" Mark said carefully. Roger sighed. He knew Mimi really couldn't keep something like that to herself. They probably thought he was nuts now.

"It's nothing, man. I just dreamt about her…that's all," he shrugged. It really was nothing. Everyone got dreams once in a while. He suddenly remembered what Angel had looked like in the dream. He'd looked…natural. There was no wig or makeup and he'd been wearing a blue coat over a gray shirt, but he'd been, without a doubt, still the Angel they'd all known.

"Yeah but she said you were so convinced that…she was there…"

"It's nothing, Mark. Some dreams just seem real, that's all. C'mon, man, you dream. It's just a figment of my imagination," Roger waved the subject off. It was stupid, talking about such an irrelevant thing. It was a dream, for fuck's sake. It didn't mean anything.

They heard the front door slide open and Mark looked over his shoulder. Maureen's voice echoed throughout the loft.

"Hello? Anyone home? Baby boys, you here? I brought over some dinner, if you want some,"

"In here, Maureen," Mark called out. Roger heard Maureen's footsteps walk from the living room towards his bedroom and, in a few seconds, she stood in his doorway, dressed in an overcoat, slacks, boots and a tight-fitting blouse. She had a brown paper bag in her hands.

"Aaaw, what's the matter with Roger?" Maureen cooed as she saw him. She immediately approached the bed and Roger sat up quickly. He hated to be fussed over, especially by Maureen and Joanne. It made him feel like a baby. All of them treated him and Mimi, and Angel too when he was still alive, like ones since they were the youngest in the group. It annoyed him to hell whenever Maureen went through her motherly act. It reminded him too much of his own mother, who in turn, reminded him of his father, whom he really didn't want to remember.

"I'm _fine,_" he growled. Maureen placed a hand on his forehead and clucked. "Mark, help,"

"You're pretty warm, honey," she said. "Don't worry, I brought you babies some nice chicken cordon bleu to fill your tummies. Pooky here loves chicken cordon bleu, don't you Marky?"

Roger couldn't help but grin as Maureen turned to Mark and made her cutesy face. Mark looked a little constipated but managed a smile.

"I'll warm it up on the stove," Maureen stood up and waltzed out of the room and in seconds they heard pots and pans and things being moved around. "It's freezing in here, Mark! You should fix the heating!"

"I would if I knew how to!" Mark yelled back. "And I'd have someone fix it if only it didn't cost so much!"

"Collins knows how to do stuff like that, doesn't he?" Roger asked, lying back down. The room was starting to spin again.

"Yeah but he already took a look at it and told me it's hopeless. I'd have to pay Benny a lot of money just to get a new one installed. If he knows it's broken though he'll insist on paying for the new one himself and I don't really want to accept anything from that guy…not for a long time," Mark explained. "You need anything? Aside from Mimi, that is."

"That cordon bleu sounds a little tasty…" Roger raised his eyebrows to heckle Mark. The latter snorted.

"Don't let her hear that or she'll be cooking it for us for the rest of our lives,"

"Yeah? Well good thing I'm not gonna last much longer then," Roger joked.

"Not funny, Rog," Mark said, glaring a little.

Roger forced himself to grin, though he knew very well that there was probably more truth in what he'd said than in what they, even himself, all wished for.

"Kidding, man."


	7. Happy Hearts' Day

**A/N: Voila! Three new chapters! This chapter will be the end of Part One. I'll be uploading Part Two shortly. **

VII.

**February 14th, 1991**

"MARK!" Joanne shrieked. "Get out of the kitchen! Out out! You're in our way!"

Roger had to laugh as he watched the three women practically lift Mark and throw him out of the kitchen area and into the living room where he and Collins sat on the worn armchairs. The little dork kept filming though, even after the girls had already waved several spatulas in his direction.

"And that, my friends, is why you should _never _mess with women, queer or not," Mark narrated before turning his camera off.

"Siddown here, Marky, and have some Valentine's Stoli," Collins invited, holding a styrofoam cup up. "I've got a tub with your name on it,"

Collins had arrived for their traditional get-together (one of many) at around 3 that afternoon, carrying with him a large bag of groceries. Roger had been awakened by the sound of the heavy footsteps and their door sliding open while he was dozing on the sofa under a blanket. At first what he'd seen was a blur since his eyes were still adjusting, but it didn't take long for him to recognize the big guy that lumbered toward him from the front door.

"Hey, hey, Rog the man," Collins had greeted; his deep gravelly voice a comforting sound to Roger's frayed nerves. He'd smiled at the philosopher as the latter approached. He'd been happy about the big guy's arrival, since Collins had always been a figure he'd looked up to, though he'd never told anyone. The big guy was like the big brother he'd never had and it was always comforting to him to have the philosopher around. It had been a long time since they'd last seen him. Joanne had come in at about an hour after Collins had, also with bags of groceries in her arms, declaring she'd gotten pissed at the people in the office and had decided to bunk off early to piss _them _off, though Roger knew she'd been looking forward to the get-together all day and just couldn't wait. Maureen had come in last, as usual, but had proceeded to help Mimi and Joanne in the kitchen right away without bitching for once, which was a relief.

That was what Roger liked about any sort of holiday or birthday that passed: their little family unit came together, no matter where they'd be working or what they were supposed to be doing. Since their group was formed, it had been a tradition that for every holiday and birthday that took place, they'd all meet up at one of their pads and eat dinner and spend some time together like, as a real family would, which he'd never really experienced. He didn't exactly know who suggested it, but Roger was glad he or she had come up with it because it was just pure genius. He loved the fact that they'd all just meet up, no questions asked, and spend half a day with each other just laughing and talking or fooling around. When Angel had died, those gatherings were what had kept them sane and together, talking about her, celebrating who she'd been, crying for her. It was almost like they'd formed their own Life Support actually. He could swear that, if they hadn't had things like it, he'd have gone over his head a long time ago.

For that year's Valentine's (joint with Angel's birthday), it was agreed upon that they'd hold the get-together at the loft since neither Mimi nor Mark thought it a good idea for him to be exposed to the cold, which of course he, as Roger, had objected to. When he'd first woken up the room had still spun and his chest had still felt tight, but other than that, Roger believed he was as healthy as the next guy. His fever had gone down the night before anyway, so what was there to worry about?

"All right, kids, chow's on," Joanne announced in a while. Roger blinked. Their dining room looked different now that the table had a tablecloth and actually had plates and glasses and real silverware, not just the plastic utensils he and Mark always insisted on buying because they'd never have to clean them. Where did the real spoons and forks come from? Had they been there all along?

"Does this all belong to us?" Mark asked, looking as bewildered as Roger felt. Roger had just been about to ask the same thing.

"Hope you guys didn't have to steal them or anything 'coz you know I've got nothing on me for bail money," he said instead, staring at the shiny silverware as he took his place at the table.

"Baby, it was in the kitchen," Mimi said. Roger looked up.

"It was?"

"Since when?" That was Mark.

"We found it in a pile in the cupboards. There're also some hotplates there and a lot of other stuff," Joanne said. Roger snorted. They'd found the Mrs. Cohen pile, where, Mark put all the gifts they deemed useless or that they could live without that his mother gave. Roger had already forgotten about the stash. Yeah, he could remember one year where Mark had received silverware since Mrs. Cohen somehow got wind that they didn't have any real house stuff, and Roger had taunted him to no end about tea parties and dolls. Mark had almost hurled the box at him.

"Ahh. The Mrs. Cohen pile," Collins nodded. The girls looked at him and he shrugged. "Long story."

They sat down to dinner

"Wow, is that _actual _food?" Roger could hardly believe his eyes. After about two months of junk, seeing an actual roast chicken with greens and things at the side almost made him want to cry.

"Poor baby," Joanne laughed. "Mark, you've been starving yourselves! How can Mimi cook without rations?"

"Mimi can actually _cook_?" Mark pretended to look horrified.

"Shut up, blondie," Mimi smiled. She moved closer to Roger and whispered, "I love you," into his ear. She always did that, like she was always afraid he was going to die the next second not knowing it.

Roger smiled and kissed her in return.

Collins raised his glass. "For today's Day of Love and us who celebrate it, and to an Angel who came to Earth some years ago and entered each of our lives, and who we all know is probably blowing all 24 of his candles in Heaven."

Roger saw as tears glistened in Collins' eyes, tears he knew would never disappear until the day he and Angel would be reunited. The philosopher looked up, as if expecting some sort of sign that Angel had heard, like some sort of those freaky holy lights or a shower of flowers or something, but nothing happened. Roger winced, feeling the pain in his chest again, but he ignored it and kept his eyes on Collins.

"Here's to you, babe. And here's to all of us who are still here," Collins finished, a small smile on his lips. They all raised their glasses almost automatically and kept them there for a moment. Roger could almost hear Angel's voice in his ears: "_Aww, honey, y'all are so sweet!". _His dream brushed his mind again and he could see Angel clearly for a second, smiling, looking like she'd never been sick and had always been there….

The glasses were set down again and Collins sat down.

"Baby, don't cry," Roger said softly and wiped Mimi's tears with his fingers after seeing them cascade down her face. Mimi gave him a broken smile and ran her fingers through his hair, then holding the back of his neck tenderly, pulling him closer to her. "It's okay,"

"Yeah, I know…I just wish she were here with us…." Mimi said, wiping her tears herself and giving him a more convincing smile. "Don't worry, babe,"

Roger kissed her forehead and looked into her eyes lovingly as Mark shouted "Dinner's on, lovebirds, c'mon!" and knocked them out of their trance. Roger wanted to fling the roast chicken at his best friend, but decided it wasn't a good enough reason for him to miss out on his first real meal in months. Both he and Mimi then straightened up quickly (though he wished he could stuff something down Mark's throat so he wouldn't go and interrupt them again next time) and joined the festivities.

"Here, Rog, you like mashed potatoes, don't you?"

"Collins, here, you take the breast part of the chicken since I know you're gonna be fighting with me about it for the rest of the year if I take it away from you again,"

"Well, you _did _swipe it off of my plate, Mo…"

"Are these _string beans?_ Meems, I like vegetables but did you havta get _these?_"

"Shut up, Mark. It's food. Just eat it. Baby, what part of the chicken do you want?"

Roger had to smile as he watched their little group, with Maureen handing Collins a big-ass piece of the chicken breast, Joanne scooping up mashed potatoes for him and asking if that were enough ("That's cool, thanks Joanne,"), Mark pushing all the string beans to the side of his plate with a disgusted look on his face while his stupid camera was set down for once (though it was on the table and still running) and Mimi licking her thumb free of gravy, all their faces illuminated with the soft firelight from the candles set in the center. Roger froze the image in his mind, wishing for once that he too had a camera so he could replay the scene over and over again. This was bliss for him. This was one of the times he was just glad he was still alive and hadn't gotten rid of himself like he'd planned on doing years before.

_Fuck, I wish this could last forever, _he thought, no longer feeling the cold draft in the loft or the pain in his chest.


	8. The List

VIII. — PART 2 OF STORY

**February 18th, 1991**

The devil had a name and it was pneumocystis pneumonia. Roger had to read the diagnosis the clinic had given him twice to make sure he wasn't inventing things. It explained the chest pains, obviously, and everything else. He hadn't waited around to hear anything else about it and had walked out before the nurse had given him any prescribed medicine because he didn't want to know anything more. There wasn't going to be any running anymore. In his heart he knew that the virus had caught up to him and it was only a matter of time. He didn't care for what the doctor had to say about how long he had or whatever. He was sick, period but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He'd crumpled the diagnosis up and had thrown it into one of the many trashcans that were scattered around the city.

"So what did the doctors say?" Mark asked that evening, knowing he'd gone. He'd left money for it in the kitchen drawer, so Mimi wouldn't be suspicious of anything. Roger shrugged, playing Musetta's Waltz on his guitar without looking up at Mark.

"Nothing I've never heard of. Relax. It's just the weather that's getting to me,"

Mark looked at him in disbelief and Roger knew him well enough that Mark never trusted anything he said on the first answer.

"Roger…"

"I swear to God, Mark, I'm great," he lied. It took all of his strength to look at Mark in the eye just so the latter would be convinced. God, he hated lying, especially to his best friend. He'd rather ignore a question and walk away rather than lie, but sometimes there was no other way. He had to fib this time, so no one would worry. He just consoled himself with the thought that Mark would be able to forgive him someday.

Mark didn't speak for a while.

"Can I trust you on this?" he said finally.

"Dude, have you ever doubted me for a second?" Okay, that was a stupid thing to say because Roger already knew the answer to that one and didn't blame Mark one bit when he rolled his eyes in protest.

"Okay, but I'm keeping a close eye on you. If something goes wrong again, that's it. I'm taking you to the hospital myself, even if you'd be threatening to kill me."

Roger smirked. "Yeah, whatever,"

"Okay…"

The list started that day, after some sudden inspiration. Roger had read about things like them before, lists on what people wanted to do before they died. He'd thought about it as he sat on the window seat after Mark left him alone, with his guitar nearby and his journal on his lap. All of a sudden he wasn't writing a song anymore, but a ten-item list. He chewed on his pen constantly, a nervous habit, as he erased words and phrases and replaced them with new ones. He thought long and hard about each wish, wondering how he was going to pull any of it off without anyone being suspicious.

Reason says I should have died three years ago… 

He'd cheated death more than once, but this time, he was sure he wasn't going to be as lucky. He stared at the list in his hand, wondering if he was going crazy.

_No one's actually said you're going to die this year, _a little voice in his head said. _Maybe you're just being paranoid._

Roger blew the thought away, running the items on the list in his mind, the words imprinting themselves in his memory.

_Better now than never. Even though some of the stuff here is going to kill me faster, _he thought wryly.

He wasn't going to do them in order because he doubted it was going to be possible, but there was no doubt that he was going to do them all. No way was he going to die this year or whenever he was meant to go without finishing his list, he was going to make sure of that.

**A/N: Okay, now I need help. I need other suggestions for Roger'sWhat-I-Want-To-Do-Before-I-Die List. I've already written a few chapters containing several wishes, but I might replace the others. Got any suggestions? Just leave them at the review page:) Thanks!**


	9. For Old Times' Sake

**A/N: First wish! I just find the thought of Mark and Roger growing up together so cute. I might consider some of the ideas for Roger's list given, but that will depend on some factors. Keep suggesting though! I could always use more. :) One reviewer actually already guessed one of the wishes but I won't tell who got it or what wish it was. Haha! Keep reading!**

IX.

**February 22, 1991 **– **_Baseball with Mark for old times' sake. _**

"Hey, Marky, you doing anything?" Roger asked as he barged into the filmmaker's room one morning. Mark was sitting on his bed, putting on his shoes.

"What's it to you?" he asked, looking up.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go to the park and…I dunno, play catch or something,"

Mark stared at him with a weird expression on his face. "What are you, ten years old?"

Roger laughed. "Maybe. Don't you miss it? C'mon, we used to do it all the time when we were kids, remember?"

"Yeah and broke a few windows in the process, might I add,"

"And wrecked a few garden gnomes…"

"And destroyed a couple of barbecues because the ball kept going into the neighbors' grills…"

"So you up for it?" Roger grinned wickedly, throwing his twenty-year-old baseball in the air and catching it with a flourish. Mark returned his enthusiasm with an equally excited beam.

"Hell yeah,"

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Roger was thankful that the weather was on the okay side that day. If it weren't, he would seriously have to start considering that the God he grew up believing in as a kid was more than pissed at him and conspired against his every move. Which would contradict one of the items on his list.

"You're sure you're feeling okay?" Mark asked as they walked to the park.

"Yeah, best than I've felt in years," Roger said. That wasn't a lie. He'd been pretty healthy the last two days, with only the occasional cough and pain. That morning, he felt like he could even jog around the whole block.

The park was quite a walk from where they lived but neither of them minded. Even though Mark was driving him crazy again with the camera.

_Whiiiirrrrrr…_

"Smile, Rog,"

"Get that thing away before I rip it from your hands and smash it into the pavement," Roger made a face as he threw the baseball up in the air and caught it again and again. Man, it had been a long time since he held one of these things…

Mark turned off the camera and put it back in his bag.

"Hey remember when I moved into Scarsdale?"

Roger remembered a skinny, pasty kid who looked like he was going to get beaten up every five minutes in school, standing in front of the house just in front of theirs. He'd been upstairs in his bedroom, watching the moving van put things inside the house and had decided he was going out to meet the new kid. Since he'd been grounded that day, he went out through his window and clambered down the rose ladder his mother had had someone put at the side of their house.

"Yeah? What about it?"

"I thought you were going to beat me up,"

"I thought you were going to cry,"

They both laughed as they entered the park and almost immediately, started a game of catch, like they had when they were kids. Once again, Roger found delight in seeing how well Mark Cohen could finally catch a ball. He remembered teaching the little geek and wrestling him to the ground out of frustration.

"_I can't catch it, Roger!"_

"_Yes you can! Now stop being a wimp and just do it!"_

"_I can't! The ball's just too small and the sun keeps blinding me!"_

"_Just catch it, Cohen, or I'll beat you up!"_

"_Do that and I'll tell your Mom what you said."_

"_Shut up and just catch the baseball!"_

"_I CAN'T DO IT!"_

"_YAAAARRGGGHHH!" _

Roger smiled at the memory, nearly missing Mark's next throw in the process. Mark was still pretty much that, but at least the guy could catch now, which didn't make him as pathetic as before

"Wake up, Davis! What're you smiling at, anyway?" Mark called from the other end.

"Me teaching you how to catch," Roger laughed. They weren't too far away from each other so they could hear one another pretty well. The kids watching them must've thought they looked like morons, two grown guys playing catch in the park. How weird was that? But Roger didn't care.

"Boy, you sucked,"

"Shut up," Mark said. "You were always threatening me,"

"I had to. You weren't going to learn if I didn't throw bodily harm in."

"My Dad used to tell me to stay away from you. He said you had 'issues' you had to deal with and he didn't want you passing them down to me,"

"Dude, he's a psychologist. He thinks everyone has issues. He even thought the Pope had issues,"

"True," Mark laughed. He caught the ball clumsily and it almost knocked his glasses off. "Damn, your fastball's still good,"

"I had practice. Sometimes you need to throw stuff during concerts to keep the crowd entertained," Roger joked.

He'd never forget those days when he was on top of the world with his band, but he didn't want to go back to them either. Those days had been too fast, too reckless. It had been a blur of lights, smoke, haze and people. A never-ending cycle of trouble that made problems land on his and Mark's doorstep every night. Even if it had brought him the attention he'd needed back then, he never wanted to go through any of it again.

They played with the ball a few more times before Mark declared he was beat and sat down on one of the grass, taking his glasses off and wiping his face. Roger jogged over to him.

"You wimp," he taunted.

"God, I'm growing old," Mark said, his face blotched from effort. "I would kill for some lemonade right now…"

"Like what your Mom used to make?" Mrs. Cohen made the sourest lemonade on the planet. It made Roger cringe just thinking of it.

"No, like Cindy used to make. Hey, your Mom's lemonade didn't taste so hot either." Mark said.

"Yeah but at least it didn't melt your stomach. Damn, I could use a hot dog," Roger helped pull Mark up to his feet. Ugh. Chest pain again.

"You okay?" Mark asked. Shit. Had he seen the face Roger had made?

"Yeah. I'm just beat, that's all,"

A strange look passed over Mark's face but it disappeared as soon as it had come. "C'mon, let's get hotdogs…"

They walked over to a nearby stand and Mark ordered two hotdogs for the both of them: one with sauerkraut and one with mustard. Roger had never understood why on earth Mark loved sauerkraut. It smelled like feet. But Mark loved it all the same.

"Some things don't change, huh?" he said as soon as the hotdogs were in their hands, nice and warm and mustard-smelling (well, except Mark's which, of course, smelled like feet). "Why the hell do you like that stuff anyway?"

"Why the hell do you care? You've been asking me that since we first met. C'mon, let's find a place to sit,"

"Well, first of all because I can't really understand why you do since it smells so bad. And it's so weird! Pickled cabbage? I mean, come on!"

"It's a family thing. My Dad never liked you in the house for dinner either because you didn't like sauerkraut. And kept saying it, by the way."

"Hey, my opinion. Your old man's weird. I guess that's where you got it from,"

"Shut up."

They found an empty bench and sat down. For a while they just sat in silence, watching the kids play. God, Roger remembered being one. It was one of the most unforgettable times of his life: unforgettable, both in a good sense and a bad sense. He had the best of times with Mark, biking and playing sports and messing around, but he had the worst times with his family, especially with his father. When he was a kid he'd promised himself that when he became a father he wouldn't use his old man as model. In fact, he'd planned on being the coolest Dad ever, one which he wished he had. He felt sad now that that was never going to come true. He just couldn't risk bringing a child into the world with the sort of sickness that he had.

"Man, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a Dad," he said out loud, his hot dog half-eaten in his hand.

"Roger Davis, dad? Surely you jest," Mark scoffed. "Are you serious? The Rock and Roll Prince changing diapers?"

"Ha-ha, Cohen. But seriously, have you never thought of it?" Roger was looking at the bunch of kids who were playing on the jungle gym not far away from where they were. "Man, that'd be cool…"

"Whoa, Rog, I think you've been out in the cold for too long. Have you talked to Mimi about this?"

"I was just _wondering, _you doof. I'm not planning on having any. Not with AIDS. It would be unfair for the kid," Roger placed his hot dog on the little paper plate that came with it and brushed his hand free from crumbs. "I just wish it sometimes…."

"Yeah, I guess you have a point…I've wanted kids too but I'd prefer having a wife and a stable income,"

"Sorry Maureen liked girls instead of you. Were you _that _boring?"

Roger laughed as Mark almost beaned him with the camera.

"You ass," Mark grunted. "I guess you really are feeling better because you're starting to make my life miserable again,"

They started talking about childhood memories related to making each other's lives miserable. Roger was surprised to discover that he had more to say about the topic than Mark did.

"Remember when you ran over Mrs. Farrell's flowers with your bike and, when you admitted it to her, she still thought I was the one who did it?"

Mark choked in laughter. "Hell yeah. She had you stand on her front steps while yapping about destroying property. God, I almost died…"

"From me. I could've killed you for that,"

"But you didn't because we were going to the beach that weekend and you needed me to get you out of the house while your parents were away."

"God, I hope your kids wouldn't turn out to be like us,"

"Yeah?" Mark smiled. "I was hoping they would."

Roger had to grin back. Their hotdogs were finished. "Even with all the trouble we caused? Even with all this shit we have to deal with now? Even if they ran away from home, skipped college and lived the rest of their lives in the East Village starving and sick and cold?"

"Hey, I learned stuff I know I never would've learned if I'd stayed in college. I wouldn't trade any of this for the world. And if my kids grow up to be like you and me…who help each other out and love their friends and do honest work, I'd be the happiest guy on Earth," Mark shrugged. "Who cares if we're starving and cold and sick? At least we're good people."

Roger gave a small smile. He hadn't expected an answer like that from Mark and he was impressed. The guy had never been good in expressing things. He did it better after a lot of thought and preferably while reading it on paper. He was really a lucky guy to have found a buddy in Mark Cohen.

"Hey, you know what?"

"What?"

"Thanks,"

"What for?"

Countless memories of him and Mark flooded into Roger's head. Mark would never know how grateful he really was, just for being there and for supporting him and for helping him get through shit. Though it was the best he could do now, it was also the most sincere thanks he'd ever said in his whole life.

"For everything. Just everything,"

Mark grinned. "I should've gotten this on film. Roger Davis actually thanking someone,"

"Shut up,"

"You're welcome, Rog."


	10. The Side No One Sees

**A/N: I know this is somewhat out of character since Roger's often a prick and all, but I just thought it'd be nice if he had some sort of reconciliation with help he used to depend on when he was little (In the coming chapters, you guys will see more of his colorful past). If I were dying and hiding what I really have from my friends, I'd go for it too. Hahaha. Thanks for the reviews! I'm keeping your suggestions in mind. :)  
**  
X.

**February 25, 1991** – **_Make peace with The Man Upstairs. No chickening out, man._**

The church still seemed big and scary even after all these years. Roger was the only one who was there that day and he immediately felt like he shrank the minute he walked in through the giant double doors. He blew on his fingers and rubbed them together, cold and tired from the long walk. He stopped when he saw the altar at the far end, adorned with paintings and statues of angels and saints, and kept his head down. He felt like he didn't belong in the place. He felt dirty and unwanted and sinful, with his unwashed jeans and old leather jacket, not to mention how many forbidden and immoral stuff he'd already done. In his mind's eye he could see the priest who'd run the Catholic elementary school he'd gone to shaking his head disapprovingly and, for once, Roger actually felt ashamed. Maybe this was a bad idea…

No. He had to do this. He _wanted _to, though he really couldn't explain why. He'd spent the past ten years of his life hiding from a God his mother and father had wanted him to believe in, but now he was tired of running. When he was a kid he'd sucked all of it up, the belief in the God who accepted him no matter who he was or what he did, even with all his shit, and it had felt good knowing it. He'd given up on the belief long ago, since religion was one of the things his father loved to rub his face in and because he no longer believed that the same God he'd come to love and trust was the same foreboding, evil God who constantly made his father hit him. If God was love, why couldn't God let his own father love him?

_"Make the sign of the cross properly, Roger." _

_"Sit still, boy, and listen to the priest!"_

_"On your knees, now!"_

The cross at the end was glowing an eerie yellow, like it was supernatural. It looked almost foreign, but he could remember times when his parents would make him kiss the foot of one in their home. He'd also had one on a necklace. He remember he'd torn it off of his neck after he ran away, shedding everything he knew and was in the past, to disappear into the cold, struggling world of bohemia.

Roger reached into his jeans pocket and fingered the same, small golden cross, cool to the touch. A coughrumbled up from his lungs, and he hacked it out. Then came another. And another. Each hack echoed throughout the whole empty church like some sort of monster groan and he felt a dull aching in his skull as he bent forward to try and expel whatever was in his lungs.

He didn't know if it was a sign if he was unwelcome or not, but damn it, he _was_ going to do this. He'd realized a lot later in his miserable life that he now he craved for some sort of anchor, some sort of thing that he could hold on to when he was suffering, whenever he thought he was dying. He'd remembered the religion he was born in, how, when presented to him by his mother, was the most fucking wonderful thing he as a kid could believe in. With her telling of angel stories and parables and stuff...it had given him comfort and relief in his later years the moment he remembered, despite the pain, despite the fucking virus that was killing him and Mimi. Fuck his father. His mother was a gem. She was the one who had seated him on her lap with a kids' Bible in hand, with all the pictures and things of angels and animals.

_"Whenever you're sick or alone or angry or lonely, just pray to Him, baby, and He'll help you through..." _she'd always told him. He'd eaten it all up, of course, until he was about twelve or so and started to see the same religion in the hands of his father.

Now, he _was _sick and angry and lonely, and he knew he needed to talk to someone who could understand. Who he knew knew him better than he did. He smiled bitterly as his chest burned, half in disbelief that he was even speculating on thinking of such things, but there was no turning back. He had so many things to say, stuff he wanted to say sorry for, stuff he'd never tell Mark or Mimi or anyone and which he knew he had to spill before he went insane, stuff he wanted to say that he didn't want judgement for that only his childhood God could understand…

Shit, Mark would probably enjoy filming this. The return of the prodigal son, he knew that story in the Bible was called. Good thing Mark was away at work.

Roger lit three candles for him, Angel and Mimi. Then after a second thought lit five more for the rest them, including the ass, Benny. Hell, they all needed prayers. If not from him then at least for the other people who were more on the Big Man's side than he was.

He sat down on the last pew, far away from the altar, but at least still inside the church. He'd thought he was going to melt once he entered the place. He felt it actually still,as if his skin was peeling itself from his body,but he guessed it was just guilt. There were so many things he'd done...how could he even start to say how sorry he was? Was he going to beg now? Fuck, he couldn't even begin to describe how he felt. Sort of stupid (he guessed it was his stubborn side making itself known) but at the same time deeply, deeply apologetic. He'd never told Mimi or Angel that he was Catholic, though both were also born into the religion. Only Mark knew for sure, and Roger had no intentions of changing the situation.

_Oh God…_

For a long time, he just sat there, embracing the overwhelming silence and the fact that he'd had the guts to enter a church after all this time. He couldn't move. He didn't know if he was too scared or too self-conscious or whatever. Fuck, how could you pray properly anyway when it's the first time in ten years? Fuck, he'd better stop swearing…oh shit he did it again…

GAH. He willed his mind to just shut up.

Roger squirmed in his seat, rubbing his arms feeling cold again. Last night had been a pain. He'd woken up, catching his breath and with a fever. He practically had to escape that day just to get there since he was still running a temperature. Mimi had fussed over him but he'd waved it off, telling her it was another nonsense thing so she wouldn't worry. But hell, it scared him. Losing his breath in the middle of the night? Fuck. It made him wonder how much time he really had. What if one day he just stopped breathing in his sleep altogether? God, poor Mimi…

It was mostly that incident which prompted him to do this certain item on his list even though it was supposedly number 8 and he'd expected to do it at a much later time. Like, last, or something. But he guessed that today was really the right moment for it.

He went into a coughing fit again and he fought to keep it at a lower volume, even though there was no one else inside with him. It just wasn't right to come crawling for forgiveness than hacking an organ out on sacred ground.

_Angel, if you're there, help me out here, buddy…_

Once the spell was finished and Roger was only left with his headache, he closed his eyes and just let his mind wander. He saw Angel's face, then Collins', even Benny's, his ex-bandmates, the guy whom he used to buy crack from, Mimi, Mark, Joanne, Maureen. He saw April's face, his mother's, his father's…all the shit he'd pulled, all the wrongs he never corrected, all the wrongs he could _never _correct…

Without meaning to, his hands suddenly clasped together and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"I know it's been a long time...and I probably don't deserve to be listened to…but...just give me a minute to say something…if you can…please…"

The dull silence echoed in his mind, what he'd always heard whenever he attempted to question God and consequently disowned the thought over and over again for the last 10 years. He didn't care. He kept on talking in his head.

"I've never been one of your favorites...I know I've been a shitty little ass ever since...I've done a lot of stupid things too...but...I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

He paused, realizing everything he'd just said was already a prayer in itself. He almost laughed at himself: him, Roger Davis, praying. It wasn't something he thought he'd do again. But now there he was, almost on his knees, begging to a God to forgive him.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm sorry for April, for influencing so many people. I deserve to die, I know...I'm sorry for making Mark miserable...I know anything I'll do now will be nothing compared to what he's done for me...God, I miss Angel. She was a good kid. You've met Angel, haven't you? Yeah, isn't she great? We all miss her down here…Oh God, I'm scared...I'm so f---..."

He sniffed, feeling tears slide down his cheeks, but he didn't bother wiping them. This was it. The Roger Davis no one but himself saw, the Roger Davis that cried, that admitted he was afraid, that admitted he was vulnerable and needed help, was starting to show. Roger let himself, for the first time in how long,cry, wishing he could take things, decisions back, wishing he could have thought over thingsa little bit longer before he did them. His sobs were soft and in his ears he felt like a kid again, all alone and lost in a big scary world, not understanding how he'd gotten to where he was and not knowing how he was going to get back.

"I need you...Please don't leave me to deal with this by myself...I can't do it...I just can't..."

He felt a light breeze blow in from the outside and it brushed the side of his face. He imagined it was actually Angel so he didn't feel so alone. He composed himself and managed to lift his head to look at the altar, at the crucifix at the end of the hall. He let the last of his prayer be said in his mind.

_You're the only one who really knows what's wrong with me. None of the others know, hell, I don't even really know for myself. I haven't told them about what I just found out...this fucking...sorry...pneumonia, and I don't plan to…they're so happy now…I don't want them to forget about their lives and spend it taking care of me. I mean, they've got their own things too. You know when I'm going to die, and I accept it...but please, I'm begging you…when either you or the Man Down Under takes me away, please...help my friends out. I'm scared for me, but I'm scared for them too. I'm scared for Mark and Collins and Mo and Joanne, and Mimi…I know I've been a lucky son of a bitch all my life even though I don't deserve it, but...just one last favor, God, please…_

Once more there was silence in his mind, but it wasn't as empty as before. In fact, it was quite hopeful, which surprised Roger. Weird how religion worked. It actually did good to a person's psyche. He no longer felt as pressured or as trapped or as alone anymore. Rather, he felt like he'd just surfaced after being underwater for so long. Did the Big Guy take him back again?

_I'll be a better person by the end of all this, I promise. Thanks for listening._

Out of habit, he crossed himself and stood up carefully, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He suddenly felt much, much lighter. Roger smiled to himself as he got rid of his tears, proud of what he'd done, before he left the church.


	11. Italian Food

XI.

**February 28, 1991 – _Take Mimi out on a real date. Go dancing. Then do IT._**

"Oh my gosh, Roger, where are we going?" Mimi squealed excitedly as they walked down a sidewalk far from the goings-on of the East Village. The whole block was lined with little cafes and restaurants. Roger had remembered it from his childhood, when his mother would take him to 'dates' in the city.

"Sssh, babe, relax," Roger said, smiling. Their arms were linked like an old-time couple and for once, he'd smartened himself up a bit. Mark just had to film him when he came out of his bedroom.

_"Holy shit! Roger Davis actually looks like a real person!" Marksaid, camera in hand._

_"Like it, eh?" Roger looked at his reflection in the grimy mirror in their bathroom andfixed his hair a bit. He'd put on a button-down shirt for the first time in so long and some clean jeans and had borrowed some shoes from Collins. "Thanks for lending me the money for our date, Marky,"_

_"No problemo. Anything to get you dressed up and me able to get it on film," Marksmirked. "Where are you goin'?"_

_Roger shrugged as he fixed up the cuffs of the shirt. Damn things. He hated them, but he owed it to Mimi to look nice for once._

_"Nothing fancy. Just somewhere where there's nice food and maybe some dancing,"_

_"Aww, that's sweet, Davis. Can I come to film?"_

_"Shit no."_

_"Didn't think so."_

_He'd seen from the corner of his eye as Mark lowered the camera and had stared at him as he still struggled with the cuffs._

_"What're you looking at, four-eyes? Ain't never seen a guy trying to wear these things properly before?" Roger snickered. He'd looked at Mark who had his mouth slightly open. "What?"_

_"Damn, Roger…you look so much like your…"_

_"Don't even say it," Rogercut him off. He knew the word that was coming next and he didn't wanted to hear it. "It's not true."_

_"Where'd you get the shirt?"_

_"My mother gave it to me to wear to one of the parties my old man goes to…remember those?"_

_"Oh yeah. The ones you always play hookey from." Mark laughed._

_"Yeah. That's where I got this thing. Haven't worn it yet since I ran away to here before it happened,"_

_"But you brought it along?"_

_"Yeah, just in case I met a beautiful girl and wanted her to be my date…and maybe future wife."_

_"NO SHIT!"_

_Roger just laughed._

"Okay, babe, we're here," Roger stopped in front of a little Italian restaurant.

"You're serious? Dinner? Oh Rog, you shouldn't have…what about the rent and your AZTs and all the other stuff that needs paying for…?" Mimi started to fret. Roger smiled, feeling his chest ache again. He knew in his mind that he had no use for AZTs any longer, which sent a burst of confidence through his veins. There was no turning back. This was the time.

"Meems, Meems, relax. C'mon, that's all taken care of. Let's just enjoy tonight without worrying about any of that,"

He smiled at her and she smiled back. In her eyes, he could see just how happy and excited she was.

"Oh baby, are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. C'mon, we've got a table waiting," he said, putting his arm around her shoulder.

"Oh thanks so much! Wow, a real date! Thanks, baby," Mimi kissed him on the lips out of sheer gratitude.

"Hmmm, let's reserve that for later tonight…" Roger grinned as they entered the restaurant, draping his arm round her waist.

The pasta was great: good old Italian ravioli with garlic bread on the side. They had soda with it, not wine, since both were trying to kick the alcohol habit. Roger couldn't help staring at Mimi all throughout the meal. She was dressed in a simple dress, which she'd borrowed from Maureen for the occasion (but which amazingly looked better on Mimi), and her hair wasn't tied up or anything, with one or two stray curls falling into her face. She was just too beautiful that Roger could hardly believe she was his girlfriend. _His! _Who knew he'd be such a lucky son of a…

"You okay, babe?" Mimi giggled. Roger snapped out of it and discovered he was holding his fork full of ravioli halfway towards his mouth. He blushed, feeling stupid, and put down the fork.

"You look great," he commented, looking into her eyes. God, he loved her eyes. They were so warm and beautiful and were always sparkling like she had some sort of secret.

"You look great too, Rog. I still can't believe we're here," she bit her lip as she grinned. God, she looked adorable.

"It feels stupid that we don't have wine but it's for the best," he smiled a sheepish smile and ran a hand across his hair.

"Aw, don't worry about that, babe. Here, I'm going to make a toast," Mimi raised her glass filled with cola and cleared her throat, looking directly at him. "To tonight, our friends and to us. I'm the luckiest girl in the world,"

"_I'm _the luckiest bastard in the world," Roger added.

Mimi giggled, covering her mouth. "Roger, your language! We're in public!"

"Sorry, babe," he replied. They drank the sodas and finished their meal. A band was playing in the background and some dude was singing in Italian in the background. Roger didn't understand what the hell the guy was saying, but he liked the melody just the same. He tapped his foot to the beat and hummed to the tune. Foreign, but not bad.

"C'mon, baby, let's dance," Mimi said, starting to stand up. She reached out a skinny, bronzed arm towards him and Roger felt his heart beat a little faster.

"Now?" he eyed the ravioli on his plate. "But we're not finished,"

"That can wait. Come onnnn…please, Roger?" Mimi batted her eyelashes in his direction and Roger had to smile. He took her hand and let her pull him up to lead him towards the dance floor.

A few couples were already there, though most were already old enough to be their grandfathers. Roger felt a little awkward to be mingling with them, but Mimi took up his concentration by stroking his face with her finger.

"Don't be so shy, babe," she smiled.

"Shy?" he grinned. "Who said I was shy?"

"You're freezing up," she chuckled a little. "C'mon, relax. It's you and me. This is our night."

"Yeah," Roger wanted to kiss her so badly. "Tonight's our night."

He twirled her around in the way his mother had taught him when he was seven years old. He was glad he hadn't forgotten it. Mimi looked impressed as she came to a stop.

"Like that?" he asked.

"Why Mr. Davis, I _am _impressed. Tell me, what other dance moves do you hold up your sleeve?"

A slow Italian song was being sung and Roger held Mimi close to him. He led her to dance for a while, letting his body just move. He'd always been comfortable with dancing like this, though he'd never told anyone, especially at school because sometimes even he saw it as sissy stuff. Mark knew how to dance too, especially the tango, which he had to perform at some Jewish thing. Roger had laughed his ass off as he'd watched Mark learn the moves. The kid had moved like a marionette the first time.

"Wow, baby, you're a great dancer. I never knew that," Mimi smiled up at him.

"Why thank you," he told her. "You're not pretty bad at this yourself. Tell me, did you dance for a living at one point in your life?"

Mimi slapped his shoulder playfully and they kissed, with Roger holding her face and Mimi holding his hair between her fingers. Hell, the woman was a great kisser.

"I love you, babe." Her breath smelled of gum and soda.

"I love you too." Roger touched foreheads with her and closed his eyes.

Eventually Mimi rested her head against his chest and he just waltzed slowly, his head resting on her hair, inhaling its sweet floral scent. His mind was working overtime. God, he loved her. But were they ready? Was he sure?

_Shit. What if she says no? Fuck. I'll kill myself._

Angel's voice sounded in his ears. _C'mon, honey, you can do it! No day but today, remember? This girl loves you. Don't let her get away._

Yeah.

"Baby…"

His heart was pounding so hard, he wondered if Mimi could feel it.

"Yeah?"

"I gotta ask you something…Look at me,"

Mimi looked up, her eyes filled with worry.

"Are you okay, Rog? It's not anything…bad is it?"

Roger gave a nervous chuckle, "Well it depends on how you view it…"

"What is it?"

"You know I love you right?"

"Of course…" She held his face. "Roger, please don't make this any harder…just tell me…"

Roger took a deep breath.

"Angel used to tell us 'No day but today'. And I know that it's the truth that neither me or you or Collins is gonna be lasting much longer…"

"Baby don't say that…"

"…Which is why, Mimi Marquez, I'd like to ask you if you could do me the honor of being your husband," Roger let a slow grin creep across his face, trying to hide how nervous he was. Good thing his voice wasn't shaking and he could still keep his 'cool' aura. God he'd die if that happened. "Could you accept, marry and love a guy like me forever, pathetic and stupid and loud as I may be?"

"You forget grouchy…" Mimi was starting to cry.

"…and moody, and someone who eats a whole lotta junk food and spends a whole lotta time with his guitar…" he added.

"…and who has a whole lotta baggage and writes songs he never sings but loves his friends with all his heart and is the sexiest, sweetest, most gentlemanly rock star on the planet…"

Roger smiled. "Exactly. Can you marry an asshole like that?"

Mimi threw her arms around him, hugging him with all her might. Roger was actually a bit taken aback, but he was psyched too. Did it mean…

"Yes, yes, Roger Davis, I will marry you."

She jumped onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissed him so passionately it made Roger's head spin. He spun her around as they kissed, feeling as if he'd just won a million Grammys. All around them, he could hear several people applauding them. Jeez, it was embarrassing but he didn't care.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, Mimi Marquez," he whispered in her ear as soon as they finished.

TBC


	12. The Past Catches Up

XII.

**March 2, 1991 **

It was a beautiful (well, in Roger's eyes. They got married in the end, didn't they?), simple ceremony. A civil wedding wasn't what Mimi had wanted because it wasn't as sincere as a church wedding, so thanks to Benny (he and Mark had swallowed their pride as forced by Maureen, Joanne and Mimi and had patched things up with the son of a bitch, though Roger had specifically told him he didn't want any help from him with the wedding. He still did it anyway, bastard. The guy had always been too hardheaded) and Joanne's connections, Roger and Mimi were wed in no time in one of the city's small chapels. Roger hadn't minded at all with the church thing, which he saw had surprised everyone. He was thankful he'd made peace with The Man Upstairs already, so at least he'd felt at peace as the priest made him say their vows.

"Do you, Matthew Roger Davis Jr., accept Maria Margarita Marquez to be your lawfully wedded wife..."

"I do, I do, I always will," he'd said, not waiting for the priest to finish. He knew the drill anyway and he accepted it already so who cared? He heard Maureen or Collins snort in laughter behind him.

"Wait for him to finish, doofus." Mark had smacked his arm.

"I already said 'I do'…" Roger had frowned.

"It's okay, it's okay." The priest had said and turned to Mimi, who was glowing in the simple white dress Joanne and Maureen had bought for her just the day before. "Do you, Maria Margarita Marquez…"

Mimi, unlike him, had waited for the priest to finish with the long list of promises, which nearly drove Roger nuts because the priest spoke so slowly. Finally, he'd ended.

"I do," Mimi had beamed. Roger had reached out and squeezed her hand. She'd squeezed back.

"…You may kiss the bride."

Roger had smiled so huge that moment that he thought his face would break. Mimi too had had an enormous grin on her face.

"Kiss me, Davis!" she'd squealed. "We've done it!"

It was the most breathtaking kiss Roger had ever experienced. Their friends had whooped and cheered, the best men, Collins and Mark, and the maids of honor, Maureen and Joanne. Benny had been there with Allison (though Mark had pretended he wasn't there. Roger couldn't since the bastard _had _helped and was a guest) and he'd joined in on the whistling and jeering. Mimi had been crying as they finished.

"Oh baby, I'm so happy…" she'd told him. "And I feel her, babe. I feel Angel's here…"

Roger had been in tears too, wishing Mark wasn't filming, and he'd nodded. "Yeah, babe, she's here…she wouldn't miss out on something as big as this one…"

And he'd really felt Angel had been there. He'd felt her happy, energetic spirit ricochet off of the walls of the chapel as he and Mimi had kissed. And he was glad. If there was anyone who should've been there, it was Angel.

"Can you fucking believe Roger Davis has gotten married?" Mark was exclaiming as he'd filmed. "Now we'll just wait for Hell to freeze over!"

After the kiss, he and Mimi had gathered their friends around for a group hug. Everyone had been patting him on the back, and congratulating him ("_Matthew _Roger Davis? I didn't know that you were a _Matthew! _Or a '_Junior' _either, while we're at it!" Collins had exclaimed instead of congratulating right away), even kissing him, as Maureen had done.

"Oooh, baby boy, now I have to watch it when I kiss you! You're no longer public property!" she'd declared. "Mimi, do you mind?"

"Leave the boy alone," Joanne had said in a good-mannered way. "You're forgetting you're lesbian again!"

"Nah, he's conjugal property," Mimi had laughed in response to Maureen's question.

"Meems!" Roger had addressed his new wife in a panic. He hadn't wanted Maureen to be allowed to kiss him. Ew. "C'mon!"

"That can only mean…" Mark had sidled up to Mimi and had puckered his lips. Roger had grabbed the back of his best friend's rented suit.

"Hey hey, watch it, dork. She's mine."

"Oh baby, don't get so jealous," Mimi had said. She'd kissed Mark on the cheek, leaving a pink lipstick stain on his pale skin.

"Okay, enough of that loverboy…" Roger had laughed. It had been a noisy, happy morning for all of them. Afterwards, they went to the park to have a picnic (minus Benny, since he and Allison had a party to go to, typically) for the 'reception', still in their wedding garb so people stared at them like crazy.

"You'd better get a girlfriend fast, Mark," Collins teased as he lay back on the grass after having several sandwiches. "You might be getting a little lonely here now."

"That already transpired after Mimi moved in," Mark said as he kept a straight face, though everyone knew he was joking. "Don't worry, Meems, no hard feelings."

"So where's the honeymoon?" Joanne asked teasingly. Roger and Mimi looked at each other.

"Oh…I dunno…Mimi was thinking of Greece, weren't you, babe?" he joked.

"I thought you wanted France, honey. You know, to see the artsy stuff and all…" Mimi giggled, placing her head on his chest.

"Oh man, they're calling each other 'honey' now…" Mark pretended to barf and Roger threw a grape at him. It would've been an apple if only Mimi hadn't seen what was coming and had moved the fruit basket away before he could get one. "Gross, gross…"

"Oh wow, this was such a great day…a week ago I wouldn't even dream of Roger getting the guts to propose to Mimi!" Maureen was grinning from ear-to-ear, then her smile softened to something that Roger knew only happened whenever she thought of or remembered something. "Wouldn't it be great if our baby Angel were still here?"

"She'd be so happy for you guys," Collins said, smiling as well. "I knew she was there. You can always feel Angel whenever she's around, even when she was alive…"

"Yeah…"

They were quiet for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts, wondering what Angel would've said, would've done to celebrate the occasion. Mark was the one who broke the silence.

"Hey, c'mon guys, let's not be sad now. This is a great day! It's Mimi and Roger's wedding day! C'mon, let's cut ourselves some slack and enjoy…I'm sure Angel would've wanted us to."

Joanne nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I agree with Mark. No day but today, right?" She smiled at Roger and Mimi, raising her Styrofoam cup of wine. "To Rog and Mimi, I wish you as much health and happiness as you deserve…"

"…which is a LOT." Maureen cut in. "Cheers, babies!"

Roger held his new wife closer to him and kissed the top of her head as the others made a toast. He wasn't feeling well again which was a bummer since it _was _his wedding day, but he did his best for people not to notice. It was a pretty cold day. Not really conducive to picnics, but they managed.

"Meems," Collins turned to her, "what do you and good ol' Davis here have planned?"

"Well," Mimi giggled like a little girl that had just been asked who her crush was. "I was hoping for a nice house with a little garden and a white picket fence…Preferably in a neighborhood where everyone has a barbecue on Saturdays and mows their lawn on weekend mornings and you can hear kids riding their bikes up and down the street…"

"Sounds like Scarsdale, Davis," Mark commented with a grin. He was filming again. "What do you have to say about that, eh?"

Roger waved him off. "No way, man."

"Wouldn't that be nice, babe?" Mimi turned to him, a smile on her face, her beautiful chocolate brown eyes twinkling with mirth. He knew she was teasing, since everyone did know that they would never have anything like it. He knew though that Mimi also _did_ want something like it, genuinely, and he felt a twinge in his heart, knowing he could never give it to her, no matter how much he wanted to…even if it _did _sound like Scarsdale. He decided not to humor the idea. It hurt talking about what they could've had, if only they didn't have the stupid disease.

"Sorry, babe, I don't think a struggling musician can pay for that. Or would thrive in that environment," he kissed her forehead gently. "Try 'cold, dusty loft with geeky filmmaker roommate and appliances that barely work'. That's all the poor guy you sadly call your husband can afford."

Mimi slapped his shoulder playfully, laughing. Mark retorted with a 'Hey!' and Collins laughed his deep throaty laugh.

"At least _imagine, _Rog. Sheesh, man, must you be that blunt?" She tore off a piece of the tuna sandwich that lay on her plate and popped it into her mouth, sidling closer to him. "Me, making lemonade during the summer, you on the hammock, reading the Sunday paper…"

"…both of you having sex on the kitchen counter…" said Maureen with an evil cackle.

"Maureen!" Joanne reprimanded. Roger had to laugh.

"I must say this is even better than Benny's wedding to Muffy," Collins said happily. "At least we don't get to act like we have rods pushed up our asses the whole time."

"Ugh. Good thing I didn't go. You're too nice, Collins. You should try being mean for once," Maureen commented with a face.

"Yeah, you already have a role model with Maureen here…" Roger said. He ducked as the drama queen threw an empty paper plate in his direction. "HAH! Missed!"

_SPLAT! _Roger felt something wet hit his face, blocking his vision, and Maureen's malevolent crowing filled his ears. He felt Mimi tense beside him, then as she shook with laughter seconds after.

"What the _fuck…" _he heard Collins say.

Whatever had landed on his face slowly slid off and it took Roger several seconds before he realized what it was as the sour smell invaded his nostrils and several drops landed on his lips, allowing him a taste.

It was mustard. The bitch had thrown _mustard _at him! Roger wiped the stuff off of his eyes and saw Maureen already on her back, knocked over from laughing, a huge spoon covered with yellow stuff in her hands. Joanne sat beside her, her mouth open in shock and Collins was right there, a smile already forming on his lips as if recovering from his own surprise.

"Maureen…you just didn't…"

_SPLAT! _Something hit the back of his head. Something cold. It dripped down to his neck and onto his rented tux.

"WHAT THE FUCK…!" he yelled in surprise, whipping around. He caught the mischievous grin on Mimi's face. His hand flew back and touched the back of his head. It came back wet, sticky, cold and covered in white stuff. Ice cream.

"MIMI!" he exclaimed. "What the hell…!"

He was about to ask if she'd gone crazy when mustard hit Mimi as well. On the side of her face as well as her dress, staining it an icky yellow. Her mouth looked as if it was unhinged from shock. Maureen laughed harder.

"FOOD FIGHT!" Collins announced as he got hold of the bowl that held the relish they'd brought for burgers.

"Oh God no, guys, guys…" Joanne attempted to stop anything from happening but she became the third victim of Maureen's mustard-flinging frenzy.

It was utter chaos. Assorted sauces, meat products, fillings, creams and pieces of fruit flew through the air. Roger used the picnic basket as a shield since Mark was targeting him with the Jell-O. He was already covered with stains and smears and already smelled like mustard, tuna fish, and other things. His hands were so goddamned sticky that it was disgusting, but Roger was having the time of his life. Fuck the dry-cleaners. He hadn't had a food fight since highschool, mainly because they had no food to fight with most of the time.

He ducked when Mark flung a glob of Jell-O.

"Cohen, you still suck at aiming!" he yelled gleefully. He was about to say something else when something flew up and hit him in the face. When he wiped it off with a splutter, something pushed him back to lie down. Mimi's eyes twinkled merrily down at him as soon as he could see.

"How does the wedding cake taste like?" she asked, grinning. Roger smiled back and placed his hands on her hips as she held him down, her hands on his chest.

"Like revenge when I get back at you for it," he replied.

"Good, because I'll be expecting it." Mimi slowly leaned forward and, before he could say anything else, took his breath away with the most knock-your-socks-off-kiss. Roger could swear he could see stars as soon as he tasted her sweet, icing-covered lips on his. He breathed in her scent, the ends of her hair tickling his face, held her close to him and told her exactly how he felt for her by how he returned her kiss.

"Close-up on the newlyweds!" Mark announced, circling the couple like a starved vulture. Roger would have hit him, had the musician noticed he was there, but for those precious moments, nothing existed in his world but him and his beautiful new wife.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

"_Oh, Matthew, he's gorgeous! Hello, little boy, what's your name?" _

_He's six years old again, clinging to his father's pants, a blond little boy dressed in a suit, face-to-face with a woman with too much makeup on. It makes her look like a clown, but he knows better than to say it out loud._

_He feels his father tap him smartly on the shoulder._

"_Go on, say your name. Mrs. Van Morton is asking you what it is." _

"_Roger…" he starts to say, but his father interrupts him._

"_That's not your name. What did Daddy tell you?" He hears as his father's tone changes and he knows that he's on dangerous ground. _

"_My name is Matthew Roger Davis Jr., Mrs. Van Morton." _

_His father pats him on the head approvingly. "Good boy."_

They had just arrived in the loft when Collins asked the question Roger had hoped from the beginning that no one would ask.

"Hey, yeah, I forgot...Roger, I never knew you had a second name! Or, maybe to put it more aptly, _first _name since it comes before 'Roger'." Collins said, placing a hand on his shoulder as they entered their apartment.

Roger visibly cringed at the question, since he hadn't expected it to be brought up. As much as he loved the guy, he hated the fact that the philosopher had the annoying ability to ask the questions he never wanted to answer, like he had some How-To-Get-On-Roger-Davis'-Nerves radar. Fuck. Good old Collins.

"Yeah, babe, even I never knew you had another name." Mimi grinned up at him, her arm slinked around his waist.

"'_Matthew'…_so sexy, but not really rock star-ish…good thing you dropped the 'Junior', honey," Maureen commented, a devilish smile on her face as she circled around the living room, wiping some of the food stains off of her skin with a wet towel. She rolled the name around in her tongue and said it several times, which irked the musician.

Mark was still filming them as they went around the loft, making scanty attempts to clean themselves with paper towels or pieces of clothes. Roger noticed the filmmaker hadn't made a move in answering the question for him and he threw him a look. Fuck it. Whenever he needed Mark to open his big mouth to save his ass, his best friend would usually be just as dumbstruck as he was.

"It's on my birth certificate, give it a break," Roger frowned, shrugging off Collins' hold. "C'mon, like you guys don't have middle names. Mark's is _Aaron, _for fuck's sake. And he's a 'Junior' too, named after an uncle of his."

"Well, yours isn't really a _middle _name. It is kinda weird that you're called 'Roger' and not 'Matthew'," Joanne said with a light shrug and a hint of a smile. "Are you on the run or something?"

"Mmmm, 'Matthew'…" Mimi cuddled up to him. "Not bad."

Roger scowled, hating the fact that his friends thought all of this was amusing. Why the hell did Joanne have to ask for his full name for the wedding? He'd known it would lead to something like this. He should've just kept it to himself and said 'just Roger Davis', like he'd trained himself to do. But no, his tongue had reacted faster than his mind did the second Joanne asked, and before he knew it, she had jotted his name down. It had taken several minutes before he'd realized what he'd done and by that time, Joanne had gone.

"Meems, don't. I hate that name. I fucking hate it. Don't…don't call me that…just don't." He was annoyed but he was trying hard not to snap, which wasn't easy. If he went ballistic now he could ruin the whole day for everyone, and he didn't want that.

"What's wrong, babe?" Mimi frowned, clearly distressed by his behavior.

"Look, it's my father's name. I don't use it because it's _his. _Only my father calls me '_Matthew' _and I fucking hate it. Let's just leave it alone," he said carefully, fighting to keep his temper at bay. An image of his father flew to his mind and he almost growled. Mimi held his face with her hand but he lowered his head.

"Easy, relax, baby. I'm sorry…okay, okay we'll quit it."

Roger could barely look at her, not wanting for her to see what remembering his old man did to him. He was so goddamn infuriated every time he did. It was his _wedding day, _for fuck's sake. He had a right to be happy for once without the bastard coming to ruin everything.

"Thanks." He muttered, keeping his head down.

The wind howled outside and as it entered the loft. No one spoke, unsure of what to say, but exchanged glances with each other. Like a sign from hell, the phone rang, but nobody approached to answer it. Mimi was about to do so but Mark stopped her with the raising of his hand. She backed off. Screen.

"_Speak!"_

Mrs. Cohen's reedy voice immediately echoed off of the thin walls of the loft.

"Mark, honey, are you there? Pick up if you are because we have something important to tell you. Honey? I guess I have no choice but to tell you now since you aren't there…honey, are you still roommates with the Davis boy? Matthew's son? I hope you are because…Oh Mark, I'm afraid we have some bad news…Leslie, Matthew's wife, got into a car accident…she's pa—"

For the first time, Mark rushed over to the phone and snatched it from its cradle so fiercely that the wire it was connected to was almost pulled out. Roger felt himself go pale and immediately felt sick at the mention of his mother's name and the words 'car accident' used in the same sentence. He felt as time stopped as Mark stood there with the phone to his ear, speaking to his mother in a hushed voice. He wanted to approach his best friend, get the phone from him and let Mrs. Cohen tell him herself. But he couldn't. His shoes seemed to be nailed to the floor.

Mark took forever.

"Mark, what the fuck is going on?" Roger found his voice. Mark had slowly put the phone back seconds ago, but didn't say anything. He just ran a hand through his hair, his back turned to all of them.

"MARK!"

Roger found the strength to approach his best friend in quick strides and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and forced him to turn around.

"What did your mother tell you?" he demanded. He was so fucking frightened that it took all of his strength not to shake the brains out of Mark or yell. "Tell me, dammit!"

Mark looked back at him, his blue eyes glassy, like he didn't want to believe what he already knew.

"Your…your Mom and Dad got into a fight…and she left the house to come here supposedly and look for you…she…she got into an accident on the way here…." Mark said haltingly.

Roger felt weak. He let go of Mark and ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit, trying hard not to panic.

"She…she got into an accident? Wh—Where'd they…where'd they take her? I've got to…I gotta go see…."

"Roger…Rog,"

Mark grabbed his shoulders as he rambled.

"Roger, she…she died. She was brought to the hospital but she still died. My…my parents were there and held her hand…Rog, I'm sorry, buddy, I really am…I know you two were…."

Roger jerked his hand off, his mind spinning as if it were in some sort of cyclone. Mark reached out to hold his shoulders again.

"Don't touch me." Roger told him.

"Rog, I…"

"I said don't FUCKING touch me!" He shoved Mark away with all of his might, sending the filmmaker crashing into a nearby wall. From behind him, Mimi screamed, but he didn't hear her. His mother's voice filled his head, snippets of memories he thought he'd abandoned but now came back with a vengeance, drowning him in a tidal wave of grief as he remembered.

"_What story do you want for tonight, honey?"_

"_Oh, Roger, I'm sorry Daddy couldn't make it for your game, but I was there, wasn't I? You were great!"_

"_Now Daddy and I won't be long…you're my brave boy, aren't you? You're my little soldier…."_

He could still remember the night he'd left. It had been two nights after he'd found out he'd been accepted to Harvard, which he'd viewed as a death sentence. His father was going to host a huge bash for it, but he hadn't wanted it, hadn't wanted to enter his father's world of money and important people and the never-ending tirade of meetings and parties to make them feel important. He'd said goodbye to his mother with a letter, but she'd still seen him go.

"_I'll be fine…."_

"_You don't know what can happen, Roger…please, don't do this…I'll talk to your father. There's got to be some way to compromise…."_

He cuts her off. He doesn't want to hear anymore.

"_Mom, I'm doing this and you can't do anything to stop me. I don't…I don't want to end up like Dad.This ismy life, Mom. Not his. I want to live it the way I want to…."_

_His mother bites her lip. He knows she's upset, but also knows that she agrees with him._

"_You should talk to your father…you can't run away from everything, Roger."_

_He stares at her. He can't handle this any longer. _

"_I have to go, Mom. I love you." He pulls her into a hug and kisses her forehead. Funny how their roles have changed. It's like she's the child and he's the parent. She's crying now, which makes him uncomfortable._

"_I can't do anything to make you stay?" Her eyes are begging him to think things over and face his problems like a man. But he isn't going to be swayed. As much as he loves her, she won't ever understand the relationship he has with his father. If he stays any longer, he might just kill himself._

"_No, Mom. I'll see you." He hitches his duffel bag up his shoulder, the giant Nike one that was essentially bought for college packing, the only non-dorky one. The rest are all suitcases and things._

_He knows that seeinghis mother soonmight be next to impossible, as there's no chance that he's ever coming back to Scarsdale, but he tells her that anyway to make her feel better._

"_I love you, baby. Be careful, please. Keep warm…tell me where you are once you get there. Here, don't forget this…."_

_She rushes back inside the house and, seconds later, comes out with his leather jacket in her hands that he's just bought. When his father saw it, he threatened to have it burnt, because there was no way that his son 'was 'going to become some sort of hippie, rebel rocker with no meaning in life'. _

"_Oh Mom, thanks…." He takes it and slips it on. His mother watches him with a fond look, though her eyes reflect a deep sadness._

"_Promise, you'll tell me how you're doing and where you are. Promise me, Roger."_

"_I promise."_

That was over seven years ago and he'd broken his word. Roger felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, rage, grief and sadness wash over him.

Run, he had to run…he needed to escape.

He bolted for the door but collided with Collins who held him.

"Let me fucking go!" he yelled.

"Roger, calm down, man…." Collins said sternly. "I know this is a bad time, but you're not going to run away from it…."

"FUCK YOU!" he spat at the philosopher. "You don't own me! You don't know…you don't know…."

He kicked, punched and hit Collins as much and as hard as he could, but the bigger man wasn't letting him go. Instead, the philosopher embraced him.

"I had a mother once, too," was the only thing Collins spoke into his ear. Roger was so exhausted from his efforts that he gave up in hitting and let his arms fall limply to his sides. Tears stung his eyes and he hastily wiped them away, not wanting for the others to see.

"I promised her…I promised her…." He kept saying shakily, the guilt eating him alive. His mother had been an item on his list. He'd planned on taking her out after so long of not even telling her where he was, and say goodbye properly. There was no doing that now, and it hurt like hell, knowing the night he'd left was the last memory he'd ever have of his mother: crying, sad and believing in a promise he'd never kept.

"You're not alone in this, man…" Collins tightened his hug, like he wanted to let Roger feel that they were there and never going to leave him. "It's okay…it's okay…."

A strangled sob escaped from Roger's throat and he held his head down, his throat tightening and his tears falling freely, forming one giant puddle on Collins' shirt.

"She went looking for me, Col…." he stammered through his tears. "I should've…I should've…_fuck…._"

Collins said nothing but just held him. After a few seconds, he felt Mimi's slender hands rub his back as she too joined in on the hug. Maureen and Joanne came too, as did Mark, who placed a hand on Roger's shoulder and gripped it firmly. There they were, a tangle of arms, fingers, perfume, hair, tears, stains and emotions, like their own fortress to escape from the bitch called life.

"We're here, baby…" Mimi whispered in his ear as she held onto him. "Please don't run away this time…."

Roger cried harder. It was all he needed for him to decide to stay.

**A/N: This is a chapter of extremes, since it yo-yos from ecstacy to intense sadness. This was a little weird for me to write because it wasn't exactly how I imagined presenting Roger's Mom, but oh well. BTW, whenever the dates at the beginning of the chapters are accompanied by a subtitle, like the previous 3 chapters, that means Roger's fulfilling something on his list. :) Just so you guys know. **


	13. Balloon Goodbyes

XIII.

**March 4, 1991**

"Babe, eat something, please." Mimi urged gently. Roger could smell soup nearby, but it only made him sick to his stomach.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbled, keeping his eyes closed. He really wasn't. He was just tired and hot, the same way he'd been since yesterday.

"Roger, you have to eat. You'll get sicker…"

"I'm not sick, Meems. I'm just really tired…" he told her, because he was. The day he'd found out his mother had died, he'd cried the whole night, but, for the first time, he didn't do it alone. He'd cried with Mimi, with Mark, with everyone, unable to express coherently just how much he'd loved the woman who'd brought him up. He couldn't go to her funeral; he wasn't ready. His friends stayed by his side, comforting him, listening to him and he was grateful. He'd felt awful for Mimi, since the whole thing had ruined their wedding day, but she'd comforted him by saying that he'd have done the same thing for her, had their roles been reversed. After it, he'd just collapsed onto the bed and wasn't able to get up since. His body felt like a dead weight. Everyone had been fussing over him since yesterday, convinced it was his way of escaping. But it wasn't. He really was just exhausted and sad.

_You're a fucking Mama's boy, Davis. _

He could almost hear his old self telling him off, telling him how much of a wimp he was about the whole thing.

_Fuck you._

He didn't care.

He heard as their door opened and as heavy, commanding footsteps entered his room, followed by lighter, more unsure, ones. Collins and Mark.

"Has he eaten?" Collins asked.

"Did he take his AZT?" Mark's voice was tight and nervous. "Don't you think we should take him to a hospital already?"

"Stop talking like I'm not here, morons," Roger groaned. "And no, Mark, I'm not going to any fucking hospital. I'm not sick."

As if to protest what he said, his throat tickled and he coughed several times, curling up into a fetal position under the blanket since it hurt so damn much. Collins' footsteps moved closer to the bed, and Roger felt the philosopher's big, rough palm on his forehead.

"He doesn't want to eat," he heard Mimi say. "I don't know what to do, Col…"

"Davis…Roger…open your eyes," Collins said in his gravelly voice. "C'mon man,"

Roger moaned, not really wanting to follow whatever the hell the philosopher said, but he still did anyway. Everything was a blur at first, but then three shapes came into view: Collins right in front of him, his face twisted in a worried expression, and Mark and Mimi out back, both looking scared out of their wits. Roger's heart went out to his wife. He didn't want her so scared.

"Did you take your AZT?" he croaked at Mimi. He didn't want her not taking care of herself. Mimi looked as if she could cry at his question.

"Roger, we all know you're going through a tough time, but you're sick and not eating and it's scaring the fuck out of your wife," Collins scolded. "You're scaring the fuck out of all of us, for Christ's sake. You have to eat, man. You just can't let yourself waste away because of your misery."

Roger almost growled. How many times did he have to explain that he wasn't hungry or that he wasn't escaping?

"I'm not _hungry, _man. I'm not running away from anything. I'm just not _hungry," _he insisted. "Those are two different things."

Collins sighed.

"Look man, you're grieving, and we get that. But this is the same exact thing you went through when we lost April. We'd leave you to mourn on your own, but you're not exactly in a state of perfect health. Now you _eat _before we force this fucking soup down your throat."

It took all of Roger's strength to manage a glare, but the philosopher had hit everything on the spot again. Maybe he _was _running.

"Fuck you."

"And fuck you too." Collins held the bowl of soup in his hands. "Open up."

"And if I throw up?"

"Then we'll have to do it again until you keep something sufficient down." Collins glared at him.

Knowing the philosopher meant business, Roger forced himself to take down a few spoonfuls, which he saw slightly relieved Mimi and Mark. He still felt awful, with him being sick and every time he remembered his loss, but he felt a little better when he saw Mimi smile.

He heard as their door opened again then as Maureen's voice sounded in the living room.

"Mark? Meems? Col? Is he awake?" she asked loudly. Roger rolled his eyes. If he weren't he would've been in no time with that voice of hers.

"In here, Mo. And yeah, he's up," Collins called out, placing the half-eaten soup on the floor. Roger heard Maureen give a happy squeal.

"Baby boy, look what we got you!" she announced, walking through the doorway. Roger felt his mouth drop as he saw what she held in her hands. Collins, Mimi and Mark looked surprised as well.

"What—the hell is _that_?" Roger asked in the loudest voice he could manage. Maureen giggled, probably from the expression she saw on his face. Joanne was right beside her, wearing this huge smile on her face, like she was so pleased with herself.

"Balloons, silly!" Maureen said. "Haven't you ever seen any? We thought you could use a little cheering up. And this old loft is so dull, it could use a little color."

Roger was still agape at the sight: Maureen and Joanne both held what he thought must've been a twenty or so big helium balloons in assorted colors, held down by rainbow strings. They were so bright, it almost hurt his eyes, and they bobbed up and down, making little thumping sounds as they collided with each other, as Maureen and Joanne moved their hands. Roger felt as if he'd entered some sort of twilight zone children's party.

"Oh wow," Mimi breathed. "They're so pretty."

She covered her mouth with her hands, like she'd never seen balloons before, and reached out to touch a bright blue one, which was the nearest to where she was. "Aren't they pretty, babe?"

"They are pretty…uh…colorful…" Mark said, raising his hand to touch a yellow one. He did it so carefully, Roger wondered if he was afraid of it.

"That's a great idea, Mo," Collins grinned. "Nice of you to think of it…"

"I can be nice when I want to," Maureen made a face at Roger, then laughed. "When I was sad or anything as a kid, my Dad used to buy me a big balloon and it made me feel all better."

"She just dragged me over to this guy selling balloons and almost bought the whole stock from him," Joanne said. "I thought she was possessed."

"I haven't seen balloons since I was a kid," Collins said. He too looked mesmerized by all the colors. "Oh wow…they look really nice."

"See? Everyone likes them! Where should I put these, baby girl?" Maureen asked Mimi, who just shrugged.

"I'd have them everywhere." She said with a little laugh. Roger heard the familiar whirring sound as Mark's camera was turned on again. He was still too distracted by Maureen's gesture though that he barely paid any attention to it.

"Lighten up, man," Collins nudged his shoulder. "Y'have to admit, they _are _nice. Haven't you ever had balloons before?"

"'Course I did. Cohen and I used to pop them like crazy during parties to drive other people nuts," Roger said hoarsely. A green one bobbed close to him and he lightly hit it with his finger, making it tremble.

"That's not the only thing we brought," Joanne said, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh yeah, Pookie! Hurry up and get the other surprise!" Maureen said excitedly as she tied some of the balloons to the bedposts. Joanne hurried on out the bedroom door, puzzling Roger. She came back with something in her hands that made Mimi squeal.

"Oh my gosh!" Mimi said. "Baby, look! It's a puppy!"

A furry yellow thing wriggled in Joanne's arms. Mimi took it from her and raised it up, making Roger see a black nose, two twinkling marble-like eyes and a little pink tongue poking out of its mouth. He stared at it, more surprised than he'd been about the balloons. Mark was filming it excitedly.

"I read somewhere that animals have this knack to make people feel better." Joanne said. "My brother breeds these Labs and I bought one for you guys."

"Oh wow, he's a cute little guy, isn't he?" Mimi crooned. "He's gorgeous!"

"He looks somewhat like you, man," Mark commented, laughing.

"Wait wait, you _bought _a dog for us?" Roger said. God, his throat hurt, but he forced himself to speak. "Jo…I don't think we can take care of that thing…."

"Don't worry 'bout that," Maureen cut in. "Pookie and I will provide for whatever the little bruiser needs. All you have to do is cuddle him and pet him and stuff!"

"Roger doesn't cuddle and pet dogs," Mark informed the drama queen. "He prefers them to be large and in charge. If you'd only seen what his dog had been when we were kids…"

Roger almost laughed, but ended up coughing instead. He knew what Mark was talking about. He'd had a dog once: a giant German Shepherd named Achilles, which, to Mark, had been like the dog from hell. The little geek had been scared shitless of that dog. His father had used him mostly to guard the house and stuff, not to play with.

"Oh baby, can we keep him, please? Please?" Mimi pleaded, her brown eyes wide. The dog in her arms wriggled and whimpered, but licked her hands repeatedly. Roger just shrugged. He didn't mind keeping the dog, just as long as he didn't have to mind it. He figured they could all use some distraction. Mimi squeaked with delight and hugged the puppy.

"Oh God, you're so cute!" she said happily. Roger smiled. He liked seeing Mimi happy.

"See, it's making her feel better already," Joanne commented, grinning.

"I'd name him Roger if I were you," Maureen suggested. "Since he'll be pooping and peeing everywhere and making a racket…"

"Ha-ha," Roger retorted. Maureen laughed, enjoying winding him up.

"He _does _look like you, babe. In his cuteness, I mean. How bout I name you 'Dodger'? Sounds like 'Roger', but not quite," Mimi held the puppy up and grinned at it. It gave a little bark.

"The newest member of the family: Dodger Davis." Mark announced, filming the little critter.

"I agree with the name. One Roger is enough to deal with." Collins joked. "How bout we shorten it to 'Dodge'? That way when you call Roger, Meems, he won't be coming every time."

"Dodge Davis. Cute," Maureen said.

"Here, babe, you can hold him…" Mimi approached the bed with the puppy. Roger was hesitant. He really didn't want to hold the dog. He wasn't afraid of them, but he was nervous about bites. Achilles had bitten him once and it was a nightmare. He was more of a look-and-see dog person. He'd learned from Achilles that he preferred to keep his distance from them.

"No, honey, please…." He said, his voice ragged, inching away from Dodge. But Mimi had already sat down on the bed.

"Don't be afraid of him, hon, he's just a baby…" Mimi placed Dodge in his arms and Roger cringed as he felt the warm weight of the puppy. It squirmed and yapped and its nose was cold. Roger shivered, not really enjoying it.

"Meems, I don't think he likes me…" he pleaded.

"That's ridiculous. You have to be affectionate towards him. Pet him, babe. Like this," Mimi took his hand and ran it up and down the puppy's soft fur. It was downy, like a blanket he used to have as a kid. When he saw that the puppy actually liked it, Roger relaxed a bit.

"Now what?" he asked. He felt as something warm brushed his hand and instinctively pulled it away. He realized quickly that Dodge had been licking him.

"He likes you, babe, see?" Mimi said, beaming.

"See, don't you feel better already, you grouchy rock star?" Maureen teased. "Has he eaten already, Col?"

"About half a bowl of soup." Collins reported.

"Not enough. I bought all you babies some nice pizza. Roger, you eat pizza don't you?" Maureen was circling the room, helping Joanne gather the used cups and bowls placed on random ledges and things.

"Yeah…"

"Good. Then you're eating. No excuses. Be right back!" Maureen disappeared from the room, closely followed by Joanne, Collins and Mimi, presumably to get some food. Roger managed a small smile. Sure, the drama queen was a pain in the ass sometimes, but she sure knew what she was doing when she wanted to cheer someone up. He felt a little better, despite his headache, the flames that seemed to be licking his chest and the ache inside of him whenever he thought of his mother.

"She can be a pain," Mark said, as if he read Roger's thoughts, "but she's a good friend."

Roger nodded. Dodge cuddled up to him contentedly.

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It started with Joanne, originally. Roger was lying in bed, petting Dodge, when she raised the topic, having already eaten half a pizza and feeling as it was being digested inside of his stomach. The balloons were all scattered around the room. Some already had faces drawn on them with Sharpie markers. Mimi had started it by drawing her face on a pink balloon and drawing a cartoon version of Roger on a blue one. Maureen had protested by grabbing a red balloon, drawing an impatient face and tiny hands holding a guitar on it.

"_That_'_s_ Roger, baby girl. Not that blue one. Your rock star husband's assertive and feisty as hell. Blue should be Collins," she'd stated.

It had resulted in a drawing fest on several balloons: Fire-Engine Red Roger (though he preferred 'Mustang Red' or something as cool as that), Baby Blue Collins, Sunny Yellow Maureen (though both Roger and Mark had protested on the 'sunny' part), Carnation Pink Mimi, Orangutan Orange Mark (Roger had named it), Va-Va Voom Violet Joanne (Mimi had named it) and Watermelon Green Angel. Maureen had complained about the lack of disgustingly colored balloons, which she'd declared she'd put Benny's face on and call 'Shitgreen/yellow Benny'.

"You know, Rog…I used to work for Social Services and I got to work with kids who dealt with loss their own ways. There was this one kid who…who sent a balloon up to her Mom. There was a note attached to it and it said everything she wanted to say." Joanne looked sheepish, almost embarrassed as she spoke. It was Maureen, after all, who was the outspoken one. Joanne usually kept her thoughts to herself and let people take care of their own matters. Everyone looked at her.

"I mean…I…It's just a thought…a suggestion, maybe, to help…okay, I'll shut up now." Her face flushed red from embarrassment and she looked down.

"That's a great idea, Pookie!" Maureen declared. She turned to Roger. "You should try it, baby! It'll help, I bet."

"Of course no one's forcing you to," Joanne cut in, looking scared that she might have started something he wouldn't want to do. God knew just how much Roger Davis raised hell whenever he was forced into doing something. But he was too weak to yell or do whatever. And besides, he didn't find the idea too ridiculous.

"How'd she die?" he asked softly. He couldn't speak any louder now, since his throat burned each time he tried. Fuck it. He hated it whenever he lost his voice. It was like losing a leg. Joanne looked surprised.

"Who? The mom?" she asked. Roger nodded.

"Tell me 'bout it." He really did want to know, though he couldn't explain why. It _was_ emotionally draining to be grieving for the past 48 hours. He guessed he wanted to feel sorry for someone else aside from himself.

Joanne looked at Collins and Mimi as if she were asking permission, but as soon as Collins nodded, she shrugged and took a deep breath, focusing on him. He thought it was stupid and hilarious at the same time, checking to see if he could be told something, but he brushed it off since Joanne was pretty careful around things. He knew she didn't want to hurt anyone, either intentionally or not. It was just the way she was. If it was _Mark _though or _Collins_ asking permission from someone if he could tell him something, he'd probably get out of bed, no matter how sick he was, and kick their respective asses.

"Well…she'd died…she'd died of AIDS," Joanne said quietly.

Something inside of Roger stung. Okay, so that was why Joanne had to ask permission.

"Is that okay?" she looked worried.

Roger urged her to keep going with a jerk of his head. The can of worms was open anyway, and who could deny fact? Joanne bit her lip before she continued.

"Well…like I said I've worked on a few social cases…and I was assigned to this little girl called Jackie one time. She…her mother had just died from AIDS and her father had also passed away a few years back. She had no one to go to so my job was to look for a proper family. Well…I met her about two or three days after her mother passed away, and the first thing she asked me was if I could buy her a balloon, so I did, thinking she just wanted one…then when I gave it to her she, like, wrapped this note around the string. She couldn't get it tied at first so she asked for my help. When I asked what it was, she said 'Oh it's for my Mommy and Daddy. I just wrote them a letter'…and I just…it was just the sweetest thing…"

Mark stopped filming and set down the camera. He looked thoughtful.

"That's nice, Jo," Mimi gave a little smile. She hugged her arms. Everyone was quiet. Roger couldn't think of anything proper to say. Poor kid, to lose her parents like that. It was just sad.

"What…what…" he tried to talk again. Damn, he sounded like a foghorn.

"Babe, you shouldn't force yourself to talk. You'll just damage something…here…" Mimi handed him a piece of paper and one of the Sharpies. Gratefully, Roger took it and wrote down what he wanted to say: _What happened to the kid?_

He gave it to Joanne who read it. When she did, her face fell.

"She died of AIDS too, not long after. No one wanted to adopt her because the parents either didn't want to deal with losing a child or the fact that…that she had AIDS."

Something in Roger stung even more. God…that was…that was just awful. A kid…_he _had a hard time dealing with the fucking disease. What more a kid?

"A goodbye balloon, huh?" Collins looked sad. "That's sweet."

Dodge whimpered in Roger's lap. The puppy was sleeping and Roger reached out to play with his fur.

"The kids in our neighborhood stopped having balloons in their parties when word got around that Roger would just pop them the minute he walked into the room." Mark said suddenly, like he was desperate to lighten the mood. "When I moved in, he dragged me into the act. It _was _fun…'cept we almost always got into trouble for it."

Mark's eyes shone, like he suddenly remembered all the fun they used to have, before both of their lives turned into one big mess. Roger opened his mouth to speak. He didn't care that it hurt. He needed to say it out loud.

"I…I want to talk about her." He croaked.

Mark pressed his lips together, and the rest of the group turned to look at him.

"You can barely talk, man…" Collins started to say, but Roger shut him up with a quick, hoarse and persistent "I want…to talk about…my mother." Collins backed off after that.

It was hard to talk about her after the longest time of forcing himself to forget. It wasn't that he didn't love his mother. In fact, Roger _adored _her, but he'd tried his best to forget about her for the past seven years. He had, after all, not become the son she'd hoped for and he hadn't wanted her to see him struggling or anything since life in the East Village was a far cry from Scarsdale. He'd hoped that he'd get himself straightened out first before his mother saw him again, but then, the HIV/AIDS diagnosis came…and now this.

So he talked. With Mark's help.

Collins, Joanne, Mimi and Maureen were thrown into Scarsdale prematurely; a world, which, both Mark and Roger knew, didn't really match up to their current lifestyles. Roger, especially. Mark still could, Roger had no doubts, but people _he_ met usually wouldn't connect him to a suburban, white-collar past. They talked about how his mother couldn't cook to save her life, Sunday dinners that had food ordered from fancy restaurants and which she passed as her own though everyone knew otherwise, navy-blue jackets with little ships she'd made him wear, how she overfilled their Halloween bags with chocolate-covered trail mix so it would be "healthy _and _fun!", how she'd fussed over them every time they attempted to make tree houses or go-carts and stood nearby with a fully-stocked first-aid kit, and how she treated Mark like her own kid since whenever she bought Roger something, she made sure Mark got something too. Roger couldn't tell of enough nice things about his Mom. She'd been a doll, and Roger still couldn't comprehend how an ass of a guy like his father could possibly marry someone like her.

They were all very quiet as Roger and Mark spoke. Collins, Joanne, Maureen and Mimi looked surprised as soon as they'd finished.

"That sounds like a very nice, comfortable past…" Joanne said. "What…I mean…?"

"Why the hell did you both…I mean…I know I shouldn't be prying or anything but why leave? For this?" Collins looked dumbfounded. Roger suddenly felt uncomfortable. Maybe this wasn't the right time…

"Anyway, we'll let you get your rest. We'll be back tomorrow or something." Joanne stood up, as if sensing his discomfort. "Maureen, c'mon…"

"But Pookie…" Maureen pouted. She clearly didn't want to go, but Joanne pulled her up. "Aaaww. We'll see you tomorrow babies! Col, Mark, the puppy's food is in the dining room. Don't eat it, even though you're desperate okay?"

When they were gone, it got pretty quiet, and Mimi asked Roger if he was all right. He forced a smile.

"I'm kinda tired…" he said. "And my head hurts…I think I'm gonna sleep a while…."

"Do you want me to stay?" Mimi moved closer to him, but Roger moved away from her.

"No, maybe you should sleep somewhere else for the meantime." God, his throat felt as if it had been murdered. "I don't want you to catch anything…."

Mimi looked hurt. "But babe, I don't want to leave you or anything…"

Mark was looking at him strangely, but Roger threw him back one that only Mark could understand, after all the years of them being friends. As much as he wanted Mimi to be there, he wanted to be alone. Now that his mind was functioning properly again and not as ravaged by fever, he needed time to be by himself.

"Roger's got a point, Meems…we don't want you getting sick too…Here, Roger, I'll take Dodge…." Mark reached down to take the sleeping puppy. "That's cute, eh? Rog and Dodge…he's sleeping with Mommy tonight…C'mon Meems…You too, Col…."

Mark practically pulled them both out of the room. Collins protested at first, probably since he still couldn't digest the little chunks of the past Mark and Roger had laid out on the open, but he gave up eventually and agreed to be led away with a "No sneaking out, man! Especially not to sing on the rooftops. I'll smash that goddamn guitar over your head if you even think about it." Which made Roger smile.

When they left, Roger lay back, left to think. He couldn't stop thinking of the little girl with AIDS, of her losing her parents to the disease, of his mother, if she could see him now…God, he needed to stop this. He couldn't spend the rest of his short life grieving. He knew he had to let go before he totally lost himself and _not live. _That had been his biggest fear: to die before he could really live. Fuck. Mimi deserved better.

He got his journal from under his pillow, hoping he could write a song about his mother. A tribute. Just like millions he'd done before. But for the first time, his pen didn't run smoothly across the page, translating random memories and ideas into a song. It just sat there in his hand uselessly, and it frustrated him.

"FUCK."

With all of his strength, he threw the journal to the other end if the room. It was a weak throw and only landed pathetically about a yard or so away. God, Mark could throw better. He covered his face with his hands, aggravated to death. How could he force himself to let go? He wasn't ready. He wasn't even ready to go to his mother's funeral. How could he even try to let go of her so effortlessly now? The timing was a bitch.

_Mom…help me…it's me…I need you…_

He screwed his eyes shut.

_Forgive me…but I have to let you go. I can't live like this. I can't…I don't have much time. Help me to let you go._

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Fire-Engine Red Roger grimacing back at him.

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Mark sat in the kitchen, filming as Collins prepared the sofa so he could sleep there. Mimi was pacing, Dodge in her arms, but her attention was mostly on Roger's closed bedroom door. She was nervous, he could tell. It was very easy to read Mimi. She couldn't hide things very well. Quite like Roger, who, even though pretended to be okay, would always do a sucky job of acting so.

He stopped filming to watch Mimi. Pace, pace, pace. Dodge was asleep already. He wondered how the hell Roger was ever going to take care of a puppy. His best friend wasn't really affectionate towards animals. The beast Achilles had both been a negative impact on their lives.

"Meems, calm down. He's okay. He's probably sleeping," he assured her.

"Something's off with him, Mark. It's not just with his Mom. Something's really…." She turned to him. "What happened to you guys in Scarsdale? Roger…he never talks about it and it just struck me as weird that he just did. But I guess he's realized that too…."

Mark tongue twisted into a knot. He really wasn't the right person for any sort of confrontation.

"I…I…He and his Mom were just pretty close. I guess he's really shaken up about that. His Mom was really nice…anyone would love her…"

Okay. Pathetic. _Try again, Cohen_, he could almost hear Roger say.

"Yeah, Marky. This just about confuses me." Collins joined in. "Sounds like you two were pretty comfortable up in Scarsdale. Roger's all weird about something and I'm getting pretty worried."

"I…I'm really not the right person to be discussing this with you…" Mark stammered. He felt like shrinking.

"Mark, he is _hiding _something that just about made itself known the minute he knew his mother had died. Now I'm scared to death that he's going to kill himself with his misery because of it. I'm his _wife _and I don't even know a single thing about his Scarsdale past before he opened that topic a while ago!" Mimi's eyes were wide with fright. Worry. Mark swallowed.

"I…I'm gonna go out a while…."

He bolted for his bike and headed on out the door before Mimi or Collins could say anything else. His mind was spinning. Scarsdale memories were a lot of different things. There were the good ones, and there were the bad ones. Roger had his own set of bad ones as Mark had his own, and neither of them really wanted to remember any of them. The good ones were hard enough to recall since they always came hand-in-hand with an awful piece of the past and he _knew _how fucking hard it was for Roger to go back and remember again. Why did all of this have to happen now? Shit. They were all fine on the morning of Roger and Mimi's wedding day. Everything was just _fucking _fine….He half-wished his mother had never known his number so that she'd never called…shit, that felt wrong to think…

Mark looked up by accident as soon as he stepped out onto the street. The night was cold. The kind where the cold seemed to seep into his bones and stay there to freeze, forcing his bones to crack and splinter. Like that phenomena that he learned about in grade school…weathering? Good Lord, he was rambling…this wasn't a good night, even with Maureen's balloons and the arrival of Dodge and all…

Someone in the sky caught his eye. He squinted. What were they…?

It took several seconds for him to realize that they were balloons. Lots of them. They filled the ink-black sky with dots of color. One of the balloons caught his eye and Roger's voice echoed in his mind: '_Orangutan Orange Mark!' _

Yes, that was definitely his balloon-character floating out into the sky.

_What the fuck…?_

He squinted harder as he saw more and more balloons. This time he saw that the balloons didn't just have the cartoon faces of them on, but also words written sharply and quickly with a black marker. He couldn't read any of the words, but the more he stared, Joanne's voice rang in his head: "…_the first thing she asked me was if I could buy her a balloon, so I did, thinking she just wanted one…then when I gave it to her she, like, wrapped this note around the string. She couldn't get it tied at first so she asked for my help. When I asked what it was, she said 'Oh it's for my Mommy and Daddy. I just wrote them a letter'…and I just…it was just the sweetest thing…"_

Roger.

Mark rushed back to the apartment. Up up up with his bike. His legs almost gave way when he burst through the front door. Mimi nearly jumped when he did, as did Collins, who was helping in setting up a bed for Dodge.

"Mark, what the hell…?"

Mark headed for Roger's bedroom door and barged in. His best friend was standing shakily by the open window, the room empty of the balloons, with a black Sharpie in hand. Roger turned around when Mark went in, and Mark could see that his face wasn't wet, but his eyes were glistening and he was pale.

"I wrote her a letter with the balloons," Roger told him with what remained of his voice.

Mimi and Collins burst in after Mark and halted just behind him.

"Mark…I have to go back. To Scarsdale."

What? Mark was taken aback.

"Rog…you're sick. You might be delirious even. C'mon, bud, get back in bed and we'll talk about it in the morning…" Mark approached his best friend, eager to make him well again. God, Roger scared him sometimes, but he hadn't been more scared until now…

"No, Mark. I know what I'm saying. I'm going back." He could see as Roger swallowed. "I have to. I'll never be whole if I don't."

_Never be whole. _Mark was still confused. Roger Davis, the guy who got accepted into Harvard but ran away for bohemia, the guy who convinced him to drop college too and come along, the guy who cursed Scarsdale with every fiber in his body…was looking as if he was practically begging to go back.

"Mark, please. You have to come with me. I can't do it alone." Roger leaned against the wall, as if he was too weak to support himself. "Please."

Behind him, he heard Mimi crying. She was scared. She had no idea what the hell was going on with her husband. Shit, Mark was scared too. He didn't know what the hell was going on in Roger's mind, but he found that he couldn't do anything else but nod.

"Okay. Okay, Rog. We're going back. We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?"

Roger gave a relieved nod, but didn't smile. Mark wanted to kick himself. Had he really just agreed to go back to Scarsdale? And had it really been Roger Davis who'd proposed the idea? His heart was already pounding just thinking about the idea.

Shit. He wished morning would never come.

TBC

**A/N: Okay, if I were you guys, I'd be pretty confused by now too. Lol. I included a Mark POV in this because Roger's too complicated of a character to keep writing about in comparison to Mark's organized, non-jumbled one. And it adds a certain depth. Sorry this chappie's long. The story's becoming complicated since it's already 3 mini-plots in one. This chapter marks the beginning of what the past chapter's title says: The Past Catches Up. Before Roger can go, his messy past has to rear its ugly head somehow, and that's mini-plot number 3 of this whole shebang. Sorry, I'm rambling. The balloons idea and the puppy are original ones, though I have heard that some hospitals provide dogs to make the patients feel better. I just found the balloons idea cute. Roger's in a hurry to let go of his Mom because he has to keep living in the present so he can do his _carpe diem _act the way he wants to. We mustn't forget the list, and the clock's ticking…**


	14. Baggage

**A/N: Looooong chapter. Sorry. Lol, I got carried away. Anyways, thanks for all those who've reviewed, especially the regular ones (Laurel Ducky, PersephoneAtrusRemy and Love.Heals). You guys rock:) **

XIV.

**March 7, 1991** – **_Go back to Scarsdale. You know what to do. _**

The ride to Scarsdale was the longest Roger had ever taken his whole life, even though it took only an hour and a half. It was longer than the ride he'd taken to New York from Santa Fe, longer than his first trip to Alphabet City, longer than even those damned flights to Disneyland or whatever that he'd used to take as a kid with his parents. Joanne drove. She'd rented a car big enough for them to fit into and had had Mark beside her on the passenger's seat to help her with the directions. Roger, Mimi, Maureen and Collins were all in the back with Dodge. Originally, it had bothered Roger that everyone else was going to come along, because _this _wasn't any of their concern, but Collins had almost smacked him on the head and had told him, "Stop being so goddamn proud for one minute and let us help. You don't have to do this alone. You've got a beautiful wife who loves and supports you and you've got us behind your back. Now we're coming, no matter what you say, and I don't want to hear another goddamn thing about it."

That had shut Roger up good and he didn't say anything else about the idea again. Halfway to Scarsdale, he still wasn't comfortable with the fact that all of them were there since he was going to expose them to something he'd never wanted them to find out, but he was also somewhat glad. At least…at least they were there, and he could count on them, no matter what would happen.

"I love you." Mimi squeezed his hand. Dodge was snuggling between the two of them, digging his face in the space between their arms, making tiny whimpering noises as he did so. He already had a collar and a tag, fondly engraved with 'Dodge' and 'Alphabet City, NY'

"I love you too," Roger said softly. His voice had returned and he almost sounded normal. Joanne had supplied them with a steady stream of herbal tea (which he hated but Mimi and the others had practically made him guzzle like three cups a day) and lozenges. He looked out of the window. They were on the freeway. The skyscrapers and tall buildings they'd grown used to seeing had been left behind. More trees and things could be seen. The car took a turn, with Joanne patiently obeying Mark's directions, and Roger took a deep breath. Scarsdale wasn't far off now.

After a couple of minutes, Roger looked out the window again and cringed.

"Welcome to suburbia," he heard Mark mutter from the front seat. Collins whistled, Maureen pressed her nose against the glass and Mimi gasped, holding Dodge close.

"Oh, you two have got a _lot _of stories to tell…" Collins said. Roger looked down and focused on his shoes, his forehead supported by two of his fingers. He didn't have to look outside to see what was getting everyone so excited. Scarsdale wasn't just a town. It was, in fact, a high-end, very suburban place composed of affluent families who had fathers as bankers, lawyers and doctors, and mothers who were active members of the PTA, yet at the same time found the time to host elaborate dinner parties, interview nannies and housekeepers and tuck their kids in before they left to watch a play in the city with their husbands. It was a town that appeared as if it had never raised a Roger Davis. A Roger Davis didn't look as if he'd belonged, even once, in the peaceful streets of Scarsdale.

"No way." Maureen looked as if her eyes were going to pop out of her head. "Marky, you guys _lived _here? _ROGER_ lived _here? _Get outta town! Oh my God!"

"It looks great, babe." Mimi placed a hand on the back of his neck and stroked it, as if to comfort him. "It really does."

"Joanne, pull over first…" Roger heard Mark say. The car came to a stop. Roger still stared at his shoes. He felt like throwing up.

"Roger…hey man, we're here." Mark said carefully.

"I know." He replied.

"Where exactly do you…."

"You know where."

Mark was silent for a while.

"Are you sure…?"

"Just please point Joanne there before I totally lose it and get out off this car to walk back to the City," Roger cut him off.

He heard as Mark gave an almost inaudible sigh then as he muttered directions to Joanne: _Turn right at the second street…a left…Baxter Street._

Shit. He was really doing it, wasn't he? Roger bit his lip. He had no idea how he was going to pull this off. Was the bastard even going to be there? Shit shit shit. He wondered what was going to happen. He was scared, actually. Of what? God, he didn't know. He was practically shaking. But he was angry too. Shit, how was he going to react after not seeing the bastard in over seven years?

"_NO! I HATE YOU!"_

"_You will NOT speak to me like that, boy! I will not have any son of mine going around mouthing off like that!"_

_His father grabs his arm and shakes him hard as he speaks. He tries hard not to cry, but his father looks so angry that he can't help but be scared. When the first of his tears fall, it makes his father angrier._

"_Stop crying. STOP CRYING. Men don't cry, Matthew. You're seven years old already, for God's sake! Are you a fairy, huh? Are you a woman? STOP CRYING."_

_When he doesn't stop, his father roughly pushes him away._

"_LESLIE!" His father booms. He's on the floor, still in tears. He hears his mother's hurried footsteps going up the stairs in soft clicks. Even though he's not looking, he knows she's there once her perfume fills the air. He wants to run to her and hide, but he stays where he is._

"_What's going on? Matthew, what…?"_

"_THIS is what happens when you coddle that boy too much! Look at him! He's pathetic! A simpering, whimpering child with no backbone!" His father is yelling. He doesn't understand what's going on. He just doesn't want to go to another dinner again, which is why he refused when his father ordered him to put on his dress shoes and socks already. It's so boring. He'd rather stay home and watch cartoons with his baby-sitter._

"_Matthew, maybe he just doesn't want to go…maybe we should just let him stay…." His mother's saying. But his father won't have any of it._

"_Stand up!" He's grabbed by the arms and pulled up and he can feel as his father's handkerchief is wiped roughly across his face. It hurts. "He's going whether he likes it or not. You have to be firm with these kids, Leslie, or else they'll walk all over you. Matthew Roger Davis, if you know what's good for you, you will stop. NOW." _

_The look on his father's face means business and he knows what will happen if he doesn't comply. He clamps his mouth shut and does his best to shut up. He's been whipped before, and it isn't nice. The last time his father did it, it was because he lied about taking a cookie. He couldn't sit down properly for a week. _

"_Matthew, you're scaring him…don't hurt him, please…" his mother begs. He sees her looking at him worriedly, but he can't look for too long because he might cry again. He wants to run to her and let her pick him up, but he can't._

"_He has to learn a little respect." His father glares at his mother like she's done something wrong. "From now on, Leslie, there will be no running to you after I discipline him. My son, my rules. He's not going to learn anything from you if you're too soft on him. Understand?" _

_He watches as his mother nods without a sound and when his father faces him again, he gets a sound slap. His lip gets caught in his father's ring and it bleeds._

"_Cry." His father dares. _

_He doesn't._

"_That's more like it."_

The car squeals to a stop and Roger is jolted from his memories.

"Roger…we're here," Mark says quietly, turning to him.

"Wowza," Collins says from his spot. "You have a nice house, Davis."

Roger gathered his senses and found the strength to look out and see what everyone else was staring at. They were parked in front of a handsome two-story with whitewashed walls and a slate-gray tiled roof. It had a manicured lawn and a brick path leading to the front door. There was a wider brick path by the side of the garage that led to the back of the house. A black mailbox stood by the sidewalk, the name 'Davis' embossed in bronze.

Nothing much had changed.

He looked to the other side of the street and saw Mark's own house stare back at him: The warmer-looking, white brick with the flower garden and the name 'COHEN' on their own mailbox. He smiled a little, remembering how he and Mark used to talk to each other on school nights through walkie-talkies, scaring themselves with horror comic books. That had stopped when his father had walked in on them one night unexpectedly.

"_Matthew Roger Davis, Jr! What the hell is wrong with you? When I tell you to go to bed at 10:00, you're not obliged to do anything else but go to bed and sleep! Is that so hard to get through your thick head?" His father is enraged and makes a grab for the walkie-talkie in his hand after rapping him on the head. "Give me that."_

"_But Dad…" Roger's heart is just about to jump up from his throat, but he knows his father can't have the walkie-talkie. He knows his father will destroy them. They're Mark's, not his. Shit._

"_GIVE it to me, boy!" The talkie's yanked out of his hold then he's hit on the face by the back of his father's hand. It stings like hell, but Roger is too stunned to react. "Did anyone give you permission to speak? Lie down and go to sleep!"_

"_But Sir…" _

"_NO! You test my patience one more time, Roger, and I swear to God I'll ship you to military school in a heartbeat. I don't care what your mother or you says." His father turns to the walkie-talkie and barks into it. "MARK COHEN! Turn that damned thing off before I call up your parents and tell you what you're doing!"_

"_Yes, sir," comes Mark's feeble voice from the speaker. _

_The next morning, Roger finds the walkie-talkie broken in the trash. Bastard._

Roger felt pissed at how he'd never stood up to his old man. He'd been a coward. But shit, his old man had scared him. His whole life in Scarsdale had revolved around what his father had wanted him to do, to become. When he eventually realized just what the fuck he was doing, he'd made the decision to go away. Running, always running. His mother's passing had him realize that he couldn't escape from the past. It always kept coming back to torment him, despite his denial. How many times had he compared himself to his father the whole time he'd been in Alphabet City? He was never going to be completely happy if he kept running away from the past and that would be unfair to Mimi. He wanted to live whatever remained of his life with her, happily, without any past coming back to annoy the shit out of him. He'd planned to do this particular number on his list last, but there was no doubt that this was the right time. If he didn't do it now, he would go crazy.

Enough was enough. He was going to stop running.

"That's where I grew up," Roger said almost to himself. Mimi turned to look at him.

"What are we doing here, babe?" she asked gently. She wasn't prying. He guessed she just wanted to know if he was really in his right mind. Roger wondered it too.

"Baggage." he said quietly. Was his father even home? He wouldn't mind if he wasn't, at least he tried…

_Shit, Davis, stop making excuses and just _do _it, _he could hear his mind say. He stared hard at the house, as if trying to sense if anyone were home. He saw nothing move behind the windows. It was quiet on their street, with just the sounds of birds chirping and the occasional kids laughing and playing. A kid zoomed past on his bike.

_Do it, ass._

"Mark, are you gonna take them to get to know your folks?" Roger asked, his hand already on the door handle. Mark looked horrified at the idea.

"My mother doesn't even know I'm here…" he started to say.

"Where do you live, Pookie?" Maureen chirped from the backseat.

"Right there, down the street from Roger's house but…"

"C'mon then! I'm beat. I wanna get to know your folks, Marky, introduce us! You never did that when we were together." Maureen was already out the door, closely followed by Collins.

"Maureen!" Joanne said, as if she were scolding a naughty child. "C'mon, if Mark doesn't want to introduce his family then we shouldn't force him to…"

Mark groaned loudly from inside the car like his conscience had gotten up and bit him on the ass. "Okay okay. You guys must be hungry anyway. God…my mother is going to go insane the minute she finds out I'm here…."

Roger reached out and patted his best friend's shoulder. "Thanks, man."

"No problem." Mark made a face. "Hey, take your time, okay? If he's not here, well, you can either choose to stay here for a little chow down at my place or we can leave right away."

"Okay."

Mimi gave Roger a kiss before he got out of the car and Dodge gave a playful bark.

"I'm here for you, okay? Good luck, baby."

Roger smiled then kissed her back. Mark got out of the car himself and handled Mimi and Dodge, then preceded to lead their merry little troupe down the street to the Cohen house. Roger was left alone, with his hands jammed inside the pockets of his scruffy jeans.

_Here goes._

It seemed forever since he last walked down the brick path that led to their front door. The gold knocker was still there, shiny and looking brand-new against the mahogany wood. Roger's fingers trembled as he raised his hand to press the doorbell.

_Ding-dong! Ding-dong!_

His heart almost stopped when the door opened almost right away.

"Yes?"

A woman of about fifty had answered. Housekeeper. Not the same one they had had back then, but still a housekeeper judging from the feather duster she held in her hands. He wondered what had happened to Mrs. Mulroney…

"How may I help you, Sir?" she spoke again, looking at him impatiently.

"Hi…" Roger suddenly found it difficult to speak. "Is Matthew Davis home?"

Her eyes narrowed at him. "There are two Mr. Matthew Davises in this family, sir. Which of them are you referring to?"

He could almost kick himself. Doi. _He _was a fucking Matthew too. He wondered how this housekeeper could have known that there were two…maybe for security purposes?

"I don't think the Jr. still lives here but the Sr. does. May I please talk to him?" It felt weird talking all polite again. He hadn't done it for a long time. It sounded strange coming from him.

The housekeeper stared at him suspiciously. "I'm sorry but he isn't accepting any visitors right now…"

"I need to talk to him; it's urgent…" he wondered if this was all going to be worth it. The woman did make it clear that the bastard wasn't entertaining anyone. Maybe he should just leave…

He heard as footsteps thumped downstairs and this time, Roger was sure his heart _was _going to stop. He saw as his father, dressed in a black sweater and khakis, came down and stopped when he saw the door open and that the housekeeper was talking to someone outside. The bastard had barely aged. His head was still full of hair, but there were more lines on his face now.

"Who is that, Ella?"

It was the same rough, brisk tone. Roger was starting to get nervous, but he choked them all down.

"Someone wants to see you, Mr. Davis…I told him you weren't accepting any visitors but he seems persistent…"

Roger could hear the blood pounding in his ears as his father approached, his face twisted into a frown. The housekeeper vamoosed as quickly as possible.

"What do you want?" he snapped. "Who the hell are you?"

_You can't run away from everything, Roger…_

Roger swallowed.

"Don't you recognize me?" was the only thing he could say. He didn't smile, he didn't frown, but he just held a tight face. He was scared of what his father would do, would say, but he was also pissed at him. _This _was the guy who'd made his whole life growing up a living hell. Fucking bastard bully. His life in Scarsdale was practically the skeleton for any 'poor-little-rich-boy' drama series.

He didn't know if his father's eyes widened in surprise or anger or both, but they widened. Roger was obviously recognized.

"Well look who's come back…" his father's voice was low and dangerous and he crossed his arms over his chest. "What the hell are you doing here?"

What a son of a bitch. _He _was the one who had a right to be angry. He saw as his father studied him from head to toe with a careful eye but said nothing.

"I heard…that my mother had died." Roger stated. Concise, no stutter.

A pained expression passed over the older Davis' face as Roger said the words. There was hurt in his father's eyes, but was that because of him or because of the mention of his mother? To his surprise, his father opened the door wide enough for him to enter, but it wasn't for courtesy purposes. The bastard just didn't want their dirty laundry to be flaunted in public, and that was likely to happen if he had been left standing there. Roger obliged only because he wanted this over as soon as possible, but he didn't go further from the foyer. The door was shut.

"Why would you care? You haven't been home for nearly eight years…." His father stood in front of him, his arms still crossed over his chest. He seemed a whole lot smaller now than he'd been when he was a kid.

"Hey, I cared about her. I love her. She's my mother. I never came back because of _you_." Roger couldn't stop the words from spewing out of his mouth. His father's remark had irked him, and with a temper like his, chances were his mouth usually reacted faster than his head.

"You never cared about her. You never cared about anyone but yourself." His father retorted.

"If there's anyone here who's that, it's you. Don't give me that shit. If there was anyone who should've died…it wasn't her." Roger was enraged now, but he fought to keep his temper. His father looked furious as well, but he wasn't afraid anymore. A vein bulged in his father's forehead, and the older Davis' face was red. Roger was sure that if he'd been any younger, his father would've hit him.

"What the hell do you want from me? Your life's so miserable now that you want to place the blame on me? Look at you! You look as if you're starving! Your clothes have holes in them, your bones are jutting out…I didn't raise you to end up like this…if your mother ever saw you like this…"

"You were a shitty parent and she was the only one who cared two cents about me! You never wanted a son; you only wanted a mini-version of you, you selfish prick. Leave her out of this! This has nothing to do with her!" Roger yelled, not believing how the man in front of him _dared _to claim that everything he'd done about raising a kid was right. Up until now he could still feel how heavy his father's palm was as it made contact with his face whenever he was 'never good enough', according to his father's standards. He'd always covered up for the bastard in school by saying he'd been hit accidentally. Mark knew. Mark had always known.

"Nothing to do with her? Nothing to do with her?" His father's roar, he could swear, made the walls shake. "You come here uninvited, unexpected, telling me that you've heard that your mother has died. Now you say this whole thing has nothing to do with her. Why the hell are you here, then, boy? Is it money because you're not getting any of it! Not one single fucking cent! You can forget your inheritance; I disowned you the night you ran away. _You _fucking destroyed your life yourself, not me. You had everything, then you threw it all away for _this._"

The older Davis made a triumphant sweeping gesture with his hand as if to emphasize his point. His father seemed so goddamn sure of himself that Roger wanted to hit him and he almost did. His fist had already been formed, but he kept his arms to his side. He was royally pissed now.

"You want to know why I'm here?" He was so mad, he was practically hissing out the words. "I live with my friends and we barely eat enough in a day. We have no heat in the winter and no air-conditioning in the summer. We get our clothes from all over. I came here to tell you that I've _never_ been happier. I've just gotten married and she's the most perfect girl for me. She's sweet and beautiful and she loves me no matter what. I've got a best friend who's been there for me since forever. I have friends who call and see if we're okay, and when we have food, we sit down and have a great meal together, which is more than what I ever got from this crap hole. I'm the happiest than I've ever been, without all this," Roger motioned to the luxury surroundings that he couldn't believe he once belonged to. "This is nothing, believe me. Compared to what I have now."

He took a deep breath before saying the next words in order to calm himself down. He felt as if he'd run a mile. His father just stared at him, and was about to say something when he cut him off. He had to say everything. Quick. Now.

"I'm dying…Dad." The name sounded foreign on his tongue after so many years of not using it, but it just slipped out. "I'm sick…with AIDS…and I don't have much time, but I'm not asking for your help or your pity. You can stick all your money up your ass because I don't need it. I'd rather die in my bed in the city with my wife and my friends beside me than in a hospital attempting to make my life longer."

Roger sighed. His anger was quickly fading away as he got closer and closer to relief. "I'm tired of running away. I don't want to be mad at you anymore because it just fucks up my entire system and I want to enjoy whatever remaining days I have in this fucked-up world. Mom's death made this clear and I can't wait to see her again. I've missed her and I love her. She was the one I was supposed to come back to Scarsdale to, but I guess it isn't the way it's supposed to be."

Roger took one last long look at his father. It was going to be the last time he was ever going to see the guy and, though the look of shock on his father's face satisfied him, he couldn't help but feel sorry for the old man. His anger had dissipated and all that was left was pity. After he died, the old guy was going to be truly alone, left only with the housekeeper, the giant house, and the fortune that was safely tucked away in the bank.

"Have a happy life with your money, Dad."

He turned around, took the door handle and yanked it open. He didn't give a fuck when he closed it louder than what he was supposed to. What he cared was, the minute he stepped out of the goddamn house, he felt free for the first time in his life…

"Roger…wait."

Fuck.

He stopped in his tracks and turned around, his hands in his pockets. His father had opened the door and was standing by the steps. Roger had already made it halfway down the path. He squinted at the old man but didn't say anything.

The older Davis stood there, as if paralyzed, and opened and closed his mouth several times. Roger noticed that his father had suddenly looked older.

"Since…since when?" For the first time, Matthew Davis looked at a loss for words.

"It doesn't matter." Roger told him, because really, it wasn't important. He was going to die anyway. He turned around to start walking back to the car again, when his father called out again.

"Wait. Son…Roger…you can't leave, not like this. Please."

_Son. _It had been a long time since he'd heard that. There was something in his father's tone that Roger hadn't heard before and he had to stop.

"What do you want?" He faced his father again. The older Davis was wearing an expression Roger never thought he'd see on him. Guilt? Pity? Concern? It was something along those lines.

"Why didn't you…why didn't you tell at least your mother…or anyone…" His father was grasping for words. "Roger. We have to talk about this."

_What?_

"Please…come inside. We'll talk. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I yelled…I'm sorry…I have a lot to be sorry for…you can't leave…please…."

His father was begging him to stay. Roger wasn't sure if he was going to trust this one, if he was going to let his pride get the better of him. But the longer he stared at his father, bastard as he was, Roger still felt sorry for him. The poor fuck had nobody.

Roger licked his lips. Then relented. He walked back to the house where his father held the door open for him.

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"Oh Mrs. Cohen, these are div-iiiine!" Maureen said as she chomped off another big piece of the cookie she was holding. "Mmmm!"

Mark covered his face. There'd been a reason why he'd never had Maureen meet his parents when they were still together, and now his mother most probably knew why.

"Why thank you, dear. A certain chocolatier in the city does them. Cindy's children absolutely love to gorge on them." Mrs. Cohen had a smile stuck on her face, which Mark knew was her polite expression. It was kind of robotic, that look of his mother's. But Maureen didn't appear to notice.

"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Cohen. What does your husband do again?" Joanne cleared her throat to take the attention away from her life partner.

"Oh, hasn't Mark ever told you? Sam's a psychologist." Joanne was flashed a genuine smile, which the lawyer returned. Mark instantly knew his mother liked Joanne. He could almost hear her mother's mind whirring: _stable income, nice girl, polite, looks intelligent…why can't Mark have her as a girlfriend? _

"_Child_ psychologist." Mark added. He kept a wary eye on Collins who was circling the room they were in (dining room, at the big fancy table), studying the various decorations. Mimi was trailing behind the philosopher, Dodge in her hands. He knew his mother kept a close eye on Dodge, since she'd never been a big fan of animals, especially in the house. She'd just been too polite to decline Mimi's entry since they'd barged in so suddenly.

"Yes. He kept wanting to do a study on Matthew's son, but I don't think the boy ever agreed…Where _is_ Roger, sweetie?" Mrs. Cohen turned to Mark.

"Oh…uh…" Mark wasn't sure if he should say anything. News in Scarsdale spread like wildfire between the housewives and mothers. It would be really big news if they heard Roger the-boy-who-threw-his-bright-future-and-grand-life-away Davis was back in town and confronting his father shortly after his mother's death. What juicy gossip that would be; it would make the headlines of next week's garden party.

"Is this _you, _Mark?" Mark heard Collins say in disbelief. Thank God. Distraction. They all turned to the philosopher, who was pointing at a framed photograph circa early 70s. Bad haircut. Two missing front teeth. Fuck. Mark hated that picture.

"Mom! You said you were going to get rid of that!" Mark said in disbelief. Collins had started snorting in laughter and even Mimi giggled. He leapt at the picture and slammed it facedown.

"Mark Aaron Cohen, Jr., stop acting like a child!" his mother scolded. "That's a nice picture of you and you could've broken the frame! That's expensive, mind you!"

Maureen hooted, the cookie still firmly grasped between her fingers. God, why was he in Scarsdale again? Jeez…

"You should stay the night, sweetheart, there's plenty of room for everyone. Your father would want to see you…I can't contact him now because he's meeting with an important patient…." Mrs. Cohen sighed melodramatically. Mark groaned. This was the sixth time they were going to go through this drill.

"Mom, for the nth time, we're just dropping by. It's okay. We're okay…"

"But you all look _starved_! Well, of course, with the exception of Joanne and darling Maureen here…but do you and Tom and Mimi get enough to eat? Your clothes are all hanging off of you! And Roger…he's your best friend isn't he? Where is he?" His mother held Mark's face in her hands and studied him.

"Moooommm!" Mark complained, pulling away. He felt like he was back in kindergarten. Collins was enjoying the show. Mark could hear him choking back his guffaws.

"But I don't understand how you could just suddenly drop by without even a single phone call…I mean I could understand since Leslie's…passing…this is a rather strange visit, honey, though I can't say I'm not glad to finally see you and meet all your _wonderful _friends…"

Fake smile. Fake smile.

Mark couldn't stand any of it any longer. He wished Roger would hurry up. His mother was enough work. If his father ever chanced upon them there…dear God. They'd never escape. It would be senior year in highschool all over again. His father would be all over them, claiming they had some sort of psychological problem.

"Would you all like to stay for dinner?" Mrs. Cohen invited. All of them burst into random, but polite 'No's except Maureen, who only said 'No thanks' after Joanne glared at her.

_Roger…where are you?_

Mark kept throwing glances at the Davis house across the street. No sign of Roger yet. It had been nearly half an hour and he was getting worried. What if something had happened? Shit, Mr. Davis had never been shy in expressing his emotions…

"_What happened to _that, _Rog?" he points to a large bruise forming on his best friend's cheek. "Shit, did he…did he…"_

_Roger sulks, as he always does when he's being confronted. "It was a door…it wasn't him…"_

"_Shut up. I know it's him. You don't have to lie."_

"_It was a fucking door, Mark, mind your own fucking business."_

"_What made him hit you? Damn it, Roger, you can't hide this forever. You can't defend him forever! You can't deny that he did this!" He wants to shake Roger for being so stupid, but he knows his best friend is just scared. Mr. Davis has a well-kept reputation, and if word got around that he hit his son…_

"_It was my fault, it was my fault…I should have studied hard enough. A fucking 'B' isn't good enough. I'm stupid, I know…fuck…" Roger's almost in tears but wipes them away with their uniform sleeve before they can be seen. _

"_You're not stupid, man…" He immediately regrets thinking shaking Roger. "You aren't, c'mon…stop beating yourself up." He slings an arm around the other boy's shoulder. "Your dad's not always right. He can be wrong. You don't have to please him every time."_

"_He's my father, Cohen. He's counting on me."_

"_You're not him, man. You'll never be him. Why don't you try be yourself for a change? C'mon, you don't want to be a lawyer, do you? I thought you wanted to be a rock star?"_

"_You sound like your own father, Cohen. Fat fucking chance about that dream. I'm the only one he's got. I can't let him down. He'll kill me."_

"Mark? Mark? Are you listening to me?"

Mark blinked. His mother was frowning at him. "Are you okay, honey?"

"I'm perfect." He checked his watch. Damn. If Roger didn't come out anytime soon, he'd have to raid the Davis house.

"I was saying that, since you don't want to stay for dinner or anything, I'd have you take some food along with you, as well as some old clothes…I'll have Francesca get them…."

Mark was no longer listening. He was staring at the Davis' and could see as Roger swaggered down the brick path with a box in his hands. He made a grab for the front door as his mother went off to tell the housekeeper to raid his room.

"Be right back," he yelled at the rest of the gang. He didn't wait for any reply but sprinted on out the door. Roger had just reached the car. He looked fine. In fact, he looked great. Like a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

"Hey." Mark jogged over to him. Roger looked up after he placed the box in the back of the car and gave him a small grin.

"Hey."

"So…everything okay?"

A bigger, genuine smile spread across Roger's face. "Yeah. You could say that."

Mark felt himself smile as well with relief for his best friend. "That's great." He nodded. "In fact, that's awesome!"

"Yeah." Roger combed his hair out of his face with his fingers. "I can't even begin to describe it…how it feels, I mean…."

"No sweat, man. I'm just happy for you." Mark reached out for a shake, knowing that Roger would really rather keep to himself when it came to his family, but was surprised when Roger embraced him instead.

"Thanks." He muttered. "I don't think I coulda done any of that without any of your help…now or even back then."

"No problem…" Mark clapped him on the back and they broke away.

"We're acting like a couple of chicks," Roger laughed. The first laugh he'd uttered since his mother's death. Mark couldn't help but smile. Roger was okay. Roger was going to be okay. Thank God.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, just some of my old shit…thought we could use more clothes."

Mark laughed. "My mother is in the process of excavating my own stuff. D'you want us to go now, or you wanna hang out a little first? She doesn't know you're here yet, by the way."

"Maybe you guys can just wrap it up over there and I'll wait here in the car…" Roger grinned. "I…I'm still reeling from what just happened to me and I don't think I can handle any more excitement."

Mark nodded with a smile and gave his best friend a pat on the shoulder. "Sure thing. We'll be right out."

As he jogged back to his house, Mark also felt lighter somehow. Roger deserved happiness and inner peace. And he was glad his best friend was finally able to get it after so many years. Family life in Scarsdale was a bitch, but at least Roger was over his.

It was downhill now from here.

TBC

**A/N: I'd have written more about their past but I digress on the main plot. This is, after all, only one number on the list. Anyway this should explain a lot of stuff, but don't worry, there's gonna be more! Keep r/r please! Thanks!**


	15. Create and Observe

**A/N: From now on, Mark's point of view will be featured as well as Roger's. It's a transition tool. Bear with me. :D Winnie-the-Pooh ain't mine either. For some reason, I can't stop writing this stuff. It's like, to use Lindsay Lohan's words, "word vomit". Lol. I enjoy it though. And your reviews! Thanks very much! Keep on reading!**

XV.

**March 8, 1991 **

Collins was leaving the next day and both Roger and Mark had brought back a lot of stuff from Scarsdale, especially Mark, so they decided it would be best to spend the philosopher's last night with them rediscovering the past everyone was itching to know about. Both he and Roger had decided that the best way to go about it was to see what souvenirs they'd brought back. His mother had filled three boxes full of clothes and assorted stuff she thought they could use. Mark had snorted when they'd gone through the boxes the next morning and chanced upon assorted board games. What the hell did his mother think they'd do with _board games? _He'd mainly had them as a kid as some sort of tool his father used to get him to talk.

"_Mark, would you like to play a board game tonight?"_

_Shit. Not another one. What does his father want to talk about now?_

"_Uhhh…not really, Dad. I've got homework."_

"_Oh, homework can wait." His father has a wide grin on his face and a brand new game in his hands. What is it? It's something called 'Life'… "C'mon, give your old man a break."_

_He wonders if his Mom's told his Dad about anything he's done in school. Grades? Stuff he's done with Roger? What _have _they done? Nothing bad, really. Damn. This is probably another of his father's 'check-ups' to see if he was right in the head._

"Oh my goodness, Candyland!" Mimi scooped up a long flat box decorated with candy canes. "I used to play this!"

"That is one sissy-ass game, Cohen." Roger laughed.

"Shut up. That was Cindy's." Mark was filming. Again. Practically every day he had his camera on, though he wasn't sure why. He just had this sudden urge to just capture every single thing. Scarsdale had been an exception, though, but he didn't regret keeping the camera off.

"Oh, this is cute, Roger…" Joanne had this big smile on her face as she lifted something from Roger's one box, which was mostly filled with assorted clothes. It was a battered Classic Winnie-the-Pooh book. Mark almost died laughing as he saw the look on Roger's face: something that was a cross between utter humiliation and guilt.

"Jo…" Roger whined. He swiped at the book. Mimi laughed.

"I brought that for my first show-and-tell. My Mom had read it to me chapter by chapter when I was, like, five." He confessed. He held the book fondly. Mark made sure to get a close-up of his best friend's face. He knew about the book. He'd seen it one too many times tossed casually on Roger's bed before back in Scarsdale, and whenever he asked, Roger always said, "Fuck off, man. It's a good story."

"Good thing those Woozles and Heffalumps didn't affect you too much." Collins laughed, going through the boxes some more. His voice took on something resembling a storyteller's: "'Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head behind Christopher Robin…'"

"Aw, honey, don't worry, it's cute," Mimi assured her husband as the latter grew redder. Dodge nipped at the edges of the book as he toddled around the couch. "We'll read it to Dodge sometime."

"So your Dad's a lawyer…?" Joanne asked carefully as she lifted another sweatshirt out of Roger's box.

"Yeaahhh…" Roger said the word lazily and Mark almost thought he was going to ignore the topic. But he didn't. "He's a damn good one, to his credit. Though he was kinda lousy with me…but it's all good."

"Wasn't your thing, huh?" Joanne said. "I can't imagine you as one."

Roger smiled. "Yeah, we'd probably have never met if I became one. That'd suck. I mean, maybe _we'd _have met, but we probably won't be friends. It'd be, like, courtroom drama." He shook his head. "Nah, not my kind of thing. Besides I hate those goddamn suits. Mark was supposed to be a psychologist like his old man, too."

"Yeah," Mark spoke from behind the camera. "Then you appeared and invited me to ditch college to come here, which I'm pretty happy about. My father almost had a coronary, I heard, and my mother almost went over the edge, but I'm okay with it."

"Your Mom's nice." Mimi smiled, though there was a devilish gleam in her eyes. "Seems a little high-strung though…"

"Like mother, like son." Roger snorted, which Mark promptly replied with a "Shut up." Roger had always found his family so amusing. Well, to be fair, whenever Mark looked at them from an outsider's point of view, they _were, _with all their 'perfect dysfunctions', as Roger had called itIt was just his luck that he wasn't an outsider and had had to bear with a too-nosy father, a paranoid mother and a too-perfect sister for the first 18 years of his life. He'd rather have them over Roger's folks any day, though.

"_Matthew Roger Davis Jr.! Get yourself downstairs NOW!"_

_Mark sees as Roger visibly pales._

"_What? What's wrong?" he's scared now too. Damn. Mr. Davis' yelling always scared him, and it doesn't help that he's in Roger's house now when it happens._

"_I didn't mean it!" Roger is babbling. "I didn't…oh God, he's going to kill me…"_

"_What? What didn't you…"_

"_I'M GIVING YOU TEN SECONDS, BOY! ONE…!" Mr. Davis' voice booms like a sudden explosion on the stairwell. Fear gets a hold of Mark's heart. Their comics are strewn all over the bed over the unfinished homework, and cigarette smoke is hanging over their heads. Roger decided he was going to see what was so good about smoking but gave up on it after the first stick. Shit. Shit. If Roger's father sees this…_

"_It was my bike. I dented his car…I didn't see it! Shit! It was his new one…oh fuck, I have to…I have to…" Roger's eyes are wide and frightened. Mark feels for his best friend. He IS in big trouble. The Benz was only a week old._

"_It was an accident…it wasn't your fault…just tell him that…" Roger's doomed, Mark knows, but he continues to encourage his best friend. Mr. Davis is already on "THREE!"._

Mark shuddered, then let go of the memory. It was over. The past was past, and everything was okay now. Roger had moved on, which was the best that could happen. He lifted his camera and started filming again. Close up on Roger who was finally smiling.

"Heeeyyy, Twister! That's a fun game!" Maureen said. She got a hold of the white plastic sheet that displayed all of the multicolored circles and lay it down on the floor in a flourish. A huge dust cloud billowed up and sent them all in coughing fits. Mark quickly clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. Damn asthma.

"MAUREEN!" Joanne said, annoyed. Roger had staggered to the bathroom, hunched over and coughing, and Mimi sneezed all over the place. "Health hazard!"

"Well _I _didn't know that was going to happen!" Maureen said innocently. "Sorry, sorry, babies. Roger, babe, you okay?" Mark cast a glance at the open door of the bathroom, where his best friend clutched the sink, sounding as if he were bent on hacking one of his internal organs out. Worry gripped his heart for a split-second. Those coughs didn't sound good…

"Jesus, Maureen," Roger said, his voice in a half-gasp as he staggered back to where they all were. "If you're trying to kill me, can you do it in a less-subtle way? Jesus…"

"You okay?" The dust had settled and Mark could finally take his hands off of his face.

"I'm fine." Roger flopped back onto the couch and slung his arm over Mimi. "Okay, babe?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"I haven't played Twister in a long time," Collins said thoughtfully as he gazed at the mat on the floor. He raised his head and glanced at all of them one by one. Mark could sense what was coming.

"We're too old, Col…" interjected Roger.

"We're gonna be aching all over…" said Mimi.

"I don't think I remember how to play…" Joanne shrugged.

Yeah right.

It didn't take long for everyone, sans him, to be on the floor on their knees and elbows yelling various body parts and colors. Mark happily circled them, filming as they got themselves into even more complicated positions.

"Baby!" Mimi screeched in laughter at Roger who was bent over her. "Your hair is tickling my face!"

"Well I can't really move now, can I?" Roger said. He was grinning as well, though the strain on his face was evident. "Collins man, your goddamn weight is on my leg!"

"Oh God, I'm gonna sneeze!" Maureen announced.

"Dodge no!" Joanne said as Dodge had started to lift his leg over the mat, near Roger and Joanne's hand. "NOOOOO!"

The puppy was either deaf or evil, because Dodge just went and peed all over the Twister mat, sending every single one of the bohos on the floor up and yelling.

"FUCK! EW!" Roger ran off in the direction of the bathroom, closely followed by his wife and Maureen and Joanne. Collins was on the floor, on his back, laughing deep belly laughs. Mark wasn't too far behind. The camera was already shaking from his hold.

"Zoom in on Collins, who thinks puppy piss on his hands is so fucking hilarious." Mark said, holding back his giggles. Thank God he hadn't joined in on the game.

"Oh man, this is great." Collins said, laughs still rumbling from his throat. Dodge was all over him, giving the philosopher little puppy licks on the face. "Man, oh man…I haven't laughed this much in a long time…."

"There'll be plenty more laughs, old man," Mark assured him almost automatically. "Don't worry about it."

He didn't want to be reminded. He didn't want ANY little reminders that their days as these were numbered. Roger had always been on his case about not being comfortable with the topic, but who could blame him? Days like these…he knew they'd be gone sooner or later, and he didn't want to think it. But…wouldn't that make him a contradiction to his own statement since he was the one filming everything just so he could anchor himself to the past? God, he hated it whenever his father's psychological training kicked in.

Collins continued laughing, then stopped a bit to catch his breath.

"God, I hope so, Marky." He sighed happily. "I've never felt this alive my whole life. What, when we're all just here, breathing our air…damn, it's a good life, eh?"

Mark licked his lips. He was done laughing. Zoom in on the philosopher who had again hit the nail right on the head.

"Yeah…yeah, Col, it's a good life." He forced himself to say.

"You don't forget that." Collins grinned at the camera. "No matter what shit happens, huh? Don't forget."

"I won't, Col…"

Mark was at a loss of words, which made Roger's sudden re-entry good. Roger had always been there to fill in his silences. Good old noisy Roger who never quite outgrew A.A. Milne and mac n' cheese.

"Okay, where is that little bugger…." Roger stomped back into the living room, looking for Dodge.

"Aw, baby, he didn't mean it." Mimi said, trailing behind her husband. Roger picked up the puppy and held it at arm's length.

"He's gotta be potty trained, Meems! We can't have him going around pissing and shitting all over the place!"

"You guys can try, like, putting a litter box or something," Joanne suggested. "So you don't have to take him outside every time. That's kinda impractical, especially for you people who can get sick easily."

"That's what we'll do," Mimi got Dodge from Roger and crooned at him. Mark laughed when Roger rolled his eyes.

"Sometimes I think you love that thing more than me." He visibly pouted. Maureen guffawed.

"Oh my God, that has got to be the cutest thing Roger has ever said!" she laughed. "He's jealous of a puppy, baby girl!"

Mimi was all smiles too. Mark filmed as she cuddled up to Roger sweetly and whispered something in his ear, which Roger returned with a devious grin.

Zoom in on Davis who's horny now as hell.

He filmed as Mimi had Joanne hold Dodge for a second then as she threw her arms around her husband and kissed him. Filmed as Collins and the others whooped. Filmed as Dodge barked almost angrily (jealous, perhaps that somebody else had Mimi's attention?). Mark found himself smiling, the ugly what-ifs and back-thens erased totally from his mind. The 'now's were important, and he was going to keep filming.

TBC


	16. Brother's Keeper

**A/N: I hope you guys don't get confused when it comes to the different points of view. I don't want to put 'Mark's POV' or 'Roger's POV' in 'cause it just doesn't look nice. Hehe. Ruins the flow somehow. Anyway, I'll try to make it as obvious as possible, whose POV it is I'm channeling. Thanks again for r/r! (BTW I think I've completely messed up the timeline here since I remember now that Mimi's near-death happened on Dec. 24, 1990. So Angel didn't really die, like, a year ago. More like months. Anyway, I'm siding with artistic license. My timeline says that Angel died over a year ago.)**

XVI.

**March 10, 1991 **

Roger studied his face in the grimy bathroom mirror. He'd lost weight, he could see, though he couldn't understand how. He'd been _trying _to eat as much as he could, just so he could keep his act up. It didn't look as if it were working. Dark circles were under his eyes and his skin was pale where the light in the bathroom hit it. He slapped himself to see if he could improve the color then cursed out loud when he felt how much it hurt. Okay, stupid idea.

"MOTHERF—"

Roger hunched over the sink, feeling as his chest pains returned. They appeared out of nowhere sometimes. One minute, he was fine, and the next he'd almost be bowled over with pain. Sometimes it felt like a cannonball had hit him, other times it felt like someone was squeezing his lungs.

He groaned softly, placing a hand on his chest. Right, as if that would do anything. Smart, Davis, very smart. He wondered if there were some sort of pain reliever in the medicine cabinet…

His gaze fell on the bathtub, where he'd just been showering. Almost instantly, he felt the familiar feeling of guilt creep into his nerves.

How long had it been? Two--two and a half years…?

A memory came back like a bolt of lightning: April's body in the bathtub, wrinkled and cold, soaked in crimson water, her head leaning lifelessly on the white porcelain; '_We've got AIDS' _on the wall, written in her blood; Him screaming on his knees, the bloody water soaking through his clothes; Mark shaking as he dialed 911 and unable to speak properly as the operator asked him what was wrong…

Without drying himself off properly or waiting for the pain to recede, Roger staggered out of the bathroom noisily, where he was instantly embraced by the incandescent light from the kitchen, where Mark was eating a candy bar, hunched over in the darkness of the loft. The filmmaker was startled at Roger's sudden appearance and jumped in his seat, almost dropping his camera.

"What the hell---?" Mark exclaimed in surprise. When Roger saw that Mark recognized him, his best friend's face twisted into a scowl, mostly because he _had _almost dropped his precious toy. "What the hell's wrong with you, man, you scared the fuck out of me!"

"Sorry…sorry, man…jeez…" he stammered an apology.

He was breathless, not only because of the chest pains. There was a reason why he rarely stayed in that bathroom for too long. He wasn't scared of ghosts, sure. But the memory of that day was so strong that Roger often had to shower quickly as possible so as not to choke from it. He hadn't remembered it that night until after he stalled instead of just getting out of the shower right away. Damn, he shouldn't have stopped to look at himself in the mirror…

"You okay?" Mark's voice was suddenly laced with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost…"

Roger raised a wet hand. "I'm fine, I'm…cool. I just…I just thought I saw something."

He watched as Mark nodded carefully. He knew the little nerd probably didn't believe him, since Mark was getting his suspicious look again. But Roger wasn't really lying. He _had _seen something, though he was sure it was only a figment of his imagination. He veered away from the topic. Reality set in again. The noise of nighttime in New York filled his ears: cars honking, bikes ringing, the occasional people yelling, and slowly, the horrifying scene in his mind's eye vanished.

"Anyway…sorry I scared you…I'm okay…" He made his way to his and Mimi's room, his heart now getting back to normal again. Shit, when he'd dashed out of the bathroom it had felt as if it were going to pop out of his ribcage.

"Throw a shirt on. You'll catch a cold." Mark called out to him from the kitchen.

"Will do," Roger called back before entering their bedroom and pushing the door closed. He immediately felt relief as soon as he did and instantly forgot any remains of the incident in the bathroom that his mind hadn't yet discarded. A comforting sight met his eyes: Mimi was in bed with Dodge, reading to the puppy from his Winnie-the-Pooh book. She was changing her voice and everything, the same way his Mom had done when he was a kid, and Dodge was just there, looking like he understood everything. He almost laughed, seeing just how much Mimi was getting attached to the dog, but he understood her all the same. She treated it as if it were a kid, something Roger knew Mimi wanted, but would never have. God knew he wanted one too. Maybe it was a good thing Joanne had given them the puppy, though Dodge sometimes drove him up the wall. They still had a long way to go with the potty training.

"'_And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was _a Heffalump there…_'" Mimi read with as much fervor as a kindergarten teacher would to a class of five-year-olds. Roger listened as he went over his closet and pulled out his plaid pajamas, mouthing along to the words. He'd already memorized parts of the book from reading it so many times. It was a guilty pleasure right up there with chocolate milk and mac n' cheese.

Dodge barked from behind him as he pulled on one of his old hoodies over the shirt he'd just put on.

"What, baby? You want Daddy to come here too and cuddle with us?" Mimi said in a babyish voice. Roger laughed out loud, then was reminded with a sudden jolt that his chest was in pain the minute he let the first laugh escape his throat. He stopped, but kept on grinning. This was too good to pass up.

_Daddy?_

"'Daddy?'" he asked his wife. "Mimi, are you feeling okay? You _do_ remember that Dodge neither understands nor speaks."

Mimi opened her mouth in mock shock, then placed her hands on Dodge's ears as if to cover them.

"Oh, Daddy's being mean again! Bad! Bad Daddy!" she slapped Roger lightly on the arm as he got into bed and lay down beside the two of them. Dodge barked repeatedly, as if he sided with Mimi. It made Roger's head hurt since it was a high-pitched puppy bark, so he lifted a hand to pat Dodge to make him stop.

"Hey, hey, fine, cool it. I'm sorry." He petted Dodge. "Stop barking. I was wrong, sheesh…"

He turned to Mimi. "He's a little ball of complaints, isn't he?"

"Aaaaw, he is _not…_don't listen to him, baby, you know Daddy's just jealous…" Mimi got Dodge, who immediately curled up contentedly in her arms.

"See, back then I was your _only _'baby'." Roger said, pretending to be hurt. "I have to compete now with _him. _I mean, c'mon, Meems, he isn't even of the same species as us. I can handle being 'Daddy' if that weren't a canine…" He scratched Dodge's velvety puppy ears as he spoke.

"Well he's the best we've got," Mimi smiled at him, confirming Roger's belief in how his wife saw the puppy. It stung, but the truth always hurt. He let it go. "So get used to it."

Dodge had his little mouth open with his tongue out and looked as if he were grinning. Roger stuck _his_ tongue out to rile the puppy, but the darn thing was just too happy to be with Mimi. Damn, if he were Dodge, he'd be happy too. Lucky pup.

"Wife-stealer." He joked.

"I just don't want him to be alone or cold tonight. Mark said puppies are like babies…they need the attention."

"Mark wouldn't know a penny's worth about anything related to dogs, and besides, husbands are like babies too…" Roger pathetically tried to sound as if he'd been abandoned, but he just sounded bad. He almost laughed at himself. Mimi was sitting up, leaning on the headboard of the bed and he moved up to imitate her position. "Besides, how can we have a little action with him watching?" He looked at the puppy again. "It's R-18, buddy."

Dodge barked.

"Oh Rog," Mimi laughed. "You had my attention, I believe, just this morning?"

"Aaaw, babe, but…" He let his nimble fingers dance lightly on Mimi's sides, where he knew she was the most ticklish.

"ROGER!" Mimi screeched, bursting into fits of giggles. She wasn't mad; Roger knew she was enjoying it, though she was also surprised. "Oh my God, I'll kill you! STOP! ROGER!"

Dodge leapt out of her arms, whining, and sought the safety of the nest of blankets nearby, choosing to bark from there as he surveyed the scene.

"Hah! I finally got you!" Roger declared triumphantly, placing himself on top of his wife who was finally free from her precious little bundle. Mimi was still in mid-giggle, her hair splayed out on the sheets. Roger grinned at her, enjoying her delicious little laughs. She smelled of baby powder and…lavender? Mmmm. Heaven.

"Why Mr. Davis…" Mimi said in her sexy bedroom voice. "Before you do anything, I should tell you that our door's unlocked…"

"Bah, it's just Mark…" grinned Roger. "Besides, we're husband and wife. It's not illegal. In _God's eyes_ it's right…"

Mimi giggled more. "Shut up and just kiss me, Davis."

"Will do, Mrs. Davis…"

Dodge went over and nipped at the end of Roger's pajama leg as the latter leaned forward and silenced his wife.

**

* * *

Mark slept late, even when he knew he had work the next day. He just couldn't find sleep. He could lie there on his bed, pretending he wasn't hearing anything from Roger and Mimi's room through the thin walls of the loft, waiting for his eyelids to feel heavy, but he often didn't. Most of the time, he went out of his room to think on the fire escape or he played back old film reels on the projector, when he was sure that both Roger and Mimi were already fast asleep and had no plans on coming out.**

It was 1 AM. He'd been sitting on the couch in the dark doing nothing for approximately two hours now. He still wasn't sleepy, even though he was already very very tired. Somehow, he seemed sapped of his energy every day, as if something were sucking the life out of him. What had he done that morning? He'd gone to work…then he'd come home to find Mimi and Roger at wits' end because of Dodge's not-so-successful toilet training…then he'd actually _helped _them with the toilet training…dinner (which consisted of some coleslaw from the fridge and half a baloney sandwich)…reviewed a reel…Roger had scared the fuck out of him…

Mark blinked and yawned, then removed his glasses and rubbed his face. Damn. He was exhausted, but nowhere near sleepy.

Ha lay back on the couch and draped one of the blankets lying around over his body. What had his mother told him when he was a kid?

"_Count your blessings, Marky, not sheep."_

Mark almost snorted in laughter, realizing how ridiculous counting anything in his head just to fall asleep sounded. He hadn't done it since he was nine but he eventually decided to try out the idea, knowing he had nothing to lose. If he didn't fall asleep soon, he'd be a zombie at work the next day.

_Blessings, blessings, _his mind worked in overdrive.

_My friends (one)._

He decided to list them all down as individuals so there'd be more to count.

_Namely: Roger (two), the first friend I made in Scarsdale, and my best friend; Mimi (three), nice girl who can cook a mean meal given actual ingredients to work with; Collins (four), who looks after us and who gives the greatest pieces of advice; Joanne (five), who backs us up with extra money and stuff and actually cares for our well-being and whether we've eaten or not; Maureen (six), who's funny as hell and the only really affectionate one in the group, which we need; Angel (seven) who now watches all over us and is one of the nicest people I've ever met and probably will ever meet._

He yawned. There, he was feeling sleepy now. He continued counting.

_Food in the fridge (eight). Money for Rog and Mimi's AZT (nine). Dodge (ten), I guess, 'coz he's cute, though he's a whole lot of work. He makes Meems pretty happy though…Benny, that ass, having the decency to heat the loft up sometimes (eleven). Collins, Mimi and Roger not being sick (twelve). Collins, Roger and Mimi still being here (twelve)…_

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but the next thing Mark knew, his eyes suddenly flew open as he was suddenly jerked awake. _Something heavy _had fucking landed on his chest!

"OHJESUSCHRIST!"

"HOLYMOTHERFCK!"

He sprang up on the couch, his hand ready to seize anything within reach to use as a weapon, but then almost immediately came face-to-face with a wide-eyed, equally scared Roger Davis. His eyes had adjusted quickly to the darkness, and there was no mistaking that mess of blonde hair. He grabbed his glasses and put them on. Yes. It was Roger.

"What the fuck are you doing there?" Roger demanded. "I almost sat on you! Jesus Christ, I thought I'd sat down on someone who'd broken in or an alien or something!"

"What the fuck are _you _doing?" Mark hissed, regaining control of his racing heart. Holy hell. That was the second time Roger had almost given him a heart attack from fright that night. "And keep your voice down!"

"Fuck…I'm sorry…sorry…"

Moonlight shone in through the windows and Mark could see quite clearly his best friend looming over him. He stared at Roger, who was running his hands through his hair again. Something wasn't right.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked. It was the first time he'd noticed that Roger had gotten thinner and paler. He was wearing his plaid pajamas and one of the hoodies they'd brought back from Scarsdale. The last time he'd seen Roger wearing the hoodie was back when they were seniors in highschool and Roger had fit into it pretty well. Now it looked frighteningly loose. "What were you…what are you doing?"

Roger lifted his head and looked at him. His best friend looked tired. Generally.

"What's up, man?" Mark persisted. It took a lot to get Roger to talk. Most of the time, the musician didn't want to, but Mark still tried. Sometimes, he got lucky and Roger would actually tell him what was bothering him.

"Nothing…nothing…" Roger sat down heavily on the couch beside him and buried his face in his hands.

"What, you scared the hell out of me for nothing?" Mark sat up properly so there'd be more space. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"What are you doing sleeping here, man?" Roger asked, his face still hidden.

"I fell asleep here." Mark surveyed his best friend's body language. Hunched shoulders, head down. "I thought you guys were sleeping already…"

"We were…then I woke up." The musician answered simply. Mark rolled his eyes.

_Well, that's quite obvious._

Mark was about to open his mouth to say something else when, to his surprise, Roger spoke again.

"I…I dreamt…about…her."

Roger's face wasn't in his hands anymore, but he stared straight ahead at nothing, his hands pressed together on his lips, and his elbows resting on his knees. Mark raised an eyebrow. He didn't understand.

"Who? Mimi?"

Roger shook his head slowly but never looked at him. "No." He visibly gulped. "_Her."_

Mark followed his best friend's gaze and quickly realized what Roger was staring at: The closed bathroom door. _Her. _

Fuck.

"Oh…" He didn't know how he was going to handle this. This was the first time EVER that Roger was going to talk to him about April. After she'd committed suicide, they'd mostly avoided the topic, as if pretending it had never happened. This was one big-ass Pandora's box they were going to open.

"What about…what about her, Rog?" Mark had to really get a hold on himself in order not to stutter. Half of him wished he'd never asked what was bothering the musician, but he quickly banished the thought, for his and Roger's own sanity. He knew even back then that they would eventually stumble upon that topic.

"I…I…" Roger spoke haltingly, and by that time, he couldn't look at the bathroom door. "I dreamt about…what had…what had happened. Like…like what we saw. It played over and over in my head like some…some fucking movie."

The hairs on the back of Mark's neck stood up. He knew what Roger was talking about. He had those dreams too sometimes. He'd been the one who'd seen April first.

"_April! Baby, c'mon, we're going out!" Roger yells into the loft. Mark pockets the keys to the door as Roger goes straight to the kitchen to hunt for a soda. They've just gotten back from band practice. Roger asked him to film them for God-knows-what purpose. _

"_There's a new pizza place around the corner." He tells his roommate as he makes his way towards the bathroom to wash his face. Roger's still banging around in the kitchen, but lifts his soda can in response._

"_Sure thing, Marky." Roger lifts his head then calls April again. "April! C'mon! Hurry up! Are you asleep or something?"_

_Mark sets his camera on the table first before continuing to the bathroom. He hears as his best friend clomps towards his and April's bedroom and yanks the door open. He pays no attention to him and opens the bathroom door. _

_He almost gags at the sight that meets his eyes once he does._

"_Oh fuck! OH FUCKING HELL!" Mark stumbles back, feeling his knees almost give way. "ROGER!"_

_Roger's alerted by his yells and is instantly by his side._

"_What the h---APRIL!"_

_Mark watches as his roommate rushes into the bathroom. April. Holy fuck. The bathtub is filled to the brim with bloody water, and some of it's overflowed to the floor, forming a red pool that Roger's boots splash on as he rushes to his girlfriend, who's lying inside the tub. Mark knows she's dead. He knows she's dead even before Roger reaches her, yelling her name over and over again. He can't move. He watches as the musician gets on his knees and cradles April's head in his arms, making the most horrible moaning sound he's ever heard. _

"_APRIL! NO! No, no no! FUCK! Don't do this! Don't do this to me!" Roger's saying over and over. "NO NO NO!"_

_Mark wants to pass out, but he doesn't. He suddenly notices something that's written (oh fuck, is that blood? Oh Jesus, he wants to puke) on the once-white tiled walls of the bathroom. When he reads it, he can hardly breathe._

"_R-Rog…" he stutters. "Roger…Roger! Rog…April wrote something…on the wall…"_

_He sees as Roger lifts his head to read the message. It's blunt: _We've got AIDS

"_Oh fuck…oh God…NO!" _

_Mark struggles to get on his feet. The phone…he has to call 911…fuck…fuck…He almost trips on his way to the phone and can hardly dial the three numbers once he reaches it. He can't breathe…can't think…Roger's yelling at the top of his lungs, and it sounds so terrible Mark wants to cover his ears. It's like they've both entered some nightmare._

"_911, what's your emergency?" a voice on the other line asks. Mark wants to tell her so many things at the same time and he opens his mouth to do so, but something's stuck in his throat and won't budge. _

"_A-A-Av-venue B-B, please f-fucking hurry. My b-best frie-friend's girlfriend's j-j-just kill-killed hers-self."_

"This…this is going to be with me forever, isn't it? It's never going to leave me alone…" Roger said softly.

Mark couldn't think of anything to say. He knew of the guilt Roger felt. He had infected April with the virus unknowingly since they shared needles. Roger had gotten sick first through sharing with some other person, though he hadn't known back then. Both he and April had taken smack like there was no tomorrow.

"…I deserve to die."

Roger's words cut through him viciously and he felt as if a knife slashed through his heart.

"No you don't, Rog. You don't. It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes…" Mark supplied quickly. "Shut up. Don't think that."

There was no way in hell that he was going to let his best friend think that death was the comeuppance for his deed. Sure, Roger had done a lot of stuff, but he'd paid for all of them. Drugs had been a mistake, and Roger lost April because of it. That was already hard to deal with. He was proud of the musician. Roger had already gone through so much. He was a good person. No one deserved to die.

"No one deserves to die, Roger. You don't. Collins doesn't. Mimi doesn't." he added, his throat constricting. Fuck, he hated talking about these kinds of things.

"But it was my fault…she got it from me…I…I practically killed her, Marky…" Roger turned to him and Mark saw his eyes: tired, melancholy green eyes who'd seen too much, too fast.

"You didn't kill her, Rog…she chose to do that herself. She could have lived. She could have _really _lived if she'd given it a chance…" Mark replied quietly. Mimi had the disease too, didn't she? But she was choosing to live. She was choosing to take each day as it came. "She gave up, Rog. And you couldn't have controlled that."

Roger looked away and Mark knew he'd gotten to him somehow.

"Still, Mark…she still got it from me." The musician sighed heavily. "And I can't help but feel responsible for that. You'll never understand."

Mark felt as if he'd been hit. Roger had no fucking idea how much he _did _understand.

"Don't judge me, man. I know fucking well how that sort of responsibility feels." He said, not helping as his tone became clipped. Roger frowned.

"No you don't. You will never _fucking _know how it feels to have someone die because of what you did or didn't do." The musician looked pissed, but Mark felt even more annoyed. Annoyed and hurt. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

"I _do _know. I feel that way every time I look at _you_."

Silence.

Time stood still as they both stared at each other. Mark wanted to say more but restrained himself from doing so. Roger being sick hurt Mark more than anyone would ever know. He felt completely responsible for it. He had always been the levelheaded one between the two of them and Roger was extremely impulsive. When they'd left Scarsdale, he'd voluntarily kept an eye on Roger so the latter wouldn't be dug into an early grave. When the musician had started doing drugs behind his back and later when he was diagnosed with HIV/AIDS, Mark had felt as if he'd killed his best friend because of his own negligence. He _should've _known, but he'd completely ignored the signs and now both of them were paying the price of actions gone wrong. He was going to carry that feeling of guilt around with him forever, the same way he knew Roger felt about April. Only Mark was going to be around longer to endure the psychological torture of it.

Roger immediately looked extremely apologetic.

"It's not your fault, Mark…it never was." He said, his head low.

"We all have baggage, Davis." Mark said carefully. "And what's done is done. We can't change what's already happened. April's gone, but you have Mimi. I…I can't do anything to heal you, but…I try…to make each day count."

God, it hurt thinking that there was going to be a day where Collins, Roger or Mimi wouldn't be around anymore. It ate at him like a million fire ants. He knew he was going to have to accept it someday, but not now. Now wasn't the right time. Fucking ironic, how people who were supposed to be at the prime of their lives were nearing the end. It was just unfair. Everything was unfair.

"Eventually…someday…we'll all be okay. _All_ of us. Forget regret, right?"

Roger nodded.

"I'm sorry for being a shit head…I wasn't thinking when I said that…I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, man. Let it go." Mark offered his hand. "We're even?"

"We're even." Roger took his hand and shook it firmly. Mark felt tears sting his eyes the longer he looked at the musician sitting in front of him. Reality had sunk in before, but now it was staring at him in the face: His best friend was dying before his eyes and there was nothing he or anyone else could do.

"I'm sorry too for fucking up. I should've…" he started, but Roger stopped him.

"We've been through this before. It's not your fault, man. If you keep thinking that, I will seriously beat you up. Don't do this to yourself. I don't want you hurting because of me."

"I'm sure that's what April would tell you too. She loved you, Rog. You weren't just someone to her too." Mark replied softly. "This is killing me. We were supposed to look out for each other…you're like my brother, man. It's like I condemned my own brother to…to…die."

The musician's eyes pierced through his own, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"I'll…I'll forgive myself about April…when you're able to forgive yourself about me."

Mark swallowed. It was a long shot. But he could try…

"Mark. Okay?"

No. For Roger's sake, he was going to.

"I will…I promise. Deal?" His throat was hurting from unshed tears. No way was he going to start bawling like a girl, especially not in front of the bad boy rock star.

A small smile appeared on his best friend's face, and Roger appeared to look relieved.

"Deal."

And for half a moment, Mark felt as if everything was all right in the world.

TBC


	17. First Song

**A/N: Kudos to Starlight's Delightfor guessing this wish! **

XVII.

**March 11, 1991**—**_April._**

When he wanted to, Roger could remember April well. He could remember the rust-colored hair that would always faintly smell of baby shampoo, the little details she put on her painted nails with a silver pen (one time it had been 'APRIL' on her left hand's nails, 'ROGER' on her right), the little tattoo of her name composed of musical notes on her left shoulder as well as millions of other little memories. He didn't exactly know how long it had been since she'd been gone since he didn't want to think about it. But it wasn't because he had hated her or anything; it was just because it hurt to think about those years, when he was too reckless, too curious, had tried too hard to fit in…his life during those times had sped by without him actually knowing and now was actually just a big haze of bright lights, sounds and pain, in his head. He remembered how he'd known April: he'd first seen her in one of his concerts. A glance had turned into a stare, a peck had turned into a kiss, and the rest was history. Even that had been on the fast lane.

Roger treaded slowly and carefully as he walked through the cemetery, keeping his eyes on the ground as he inhaled the fresh smell of grass and dirt that had just been watered. It had only been once that he'd gone to April's grave and that had been during her funeral, with Mark leading him, but he still knew, surprisingly, where exactly it was. His feet seemed to work on autopilot.

He passed by Angel's grave on the way. It hadn't been an intentional stop, but he felt Angel deserved a visit as well.

_Angel Dumott Schunard  
__February 9th, 1967-October 29th, 1989  
__Friend and Lover: I'll Cover You._

A vase of fresh roses rested by the gravestone. Maureen or Joanne had probably put it there, or Collins before he went back to NYU. Looking at Angel's birth year and the date of her death depressed him. She'd only been 22 years old. Twenty-fucking-two. Practically a kid, whose life had been snuffed out, like many other lives before hers, by one fucking disease.

Roger knelt down and brushed a few leaves off of the grave as he said hi to Angel in his head.

_Hey, man…we all miss you like crazy. Life was more bearable with you around…you were always quite a good distraction…with your colorful clothes and those nice things you always did. _

The first time he'd met Angel, that Christmas morning, he'd been shocked internally, but the drag queen had just been too nice and fun to dislike.

_Do me a favor okay? When my time's up, come and get me, okay? If it isn't you, I swear I'll do my best to stay alive even when it hurts like hell. Well…you _can _come get me if I don't end up _down there…_I still don't know where I'm gonna be going but I figure if you get on the Man's good side, you can try and tell Him I'm a good guy? I'm sure he'll listen to you more than me. _

Roger sighed. He wondered if Angel had already met April or his mother.

_Tell my Mom hi for me. And I have one other friend up there…no I don't believe that people who kill themselves end up in Hell. That's bull. Her name's April…I'm supposed to talk to her after I'm done with you…wish me luck, okay? _

Instinctively, he reached out and gave the grass growing on the grave a gentle, loving pat with his hand. Angel had always been far more mature than he was. What he'd give sometimes for a little more maturity and patience like the drag queen had had…

He remembered Mark as he continued on to where April was buried. Fuck, he would never forget the look of hurt that had appeared on his best friend's face after he'd accused him. He could've punched his own lights out. He hadn't been thinking when he'd said that; he'd known how Mark had felt about him having HIV/AIDS ever since, so he really didn't know what had possessed him to say what he'd said. He hadn't meant it of course, but when Mark had actually reacted to it…fuck it just tore him apart. This particular item on his list had actually been on its way to the trash since he was too uncomfortable about it, but for Mark's sake, Roger was going to keep his part of the deal.

_April Ericsson  
__1966-1988_

The grave wasn't as nice as Angel's and neither as neat. The simple gravestone had been weathered by the seasons the past three years, so it was cracked and tired-looking in some places. The grass over it was a bit overgrown, and no flowers rested anywhere near it. The sight of it broke Roger's heart. No one had ever come to visit April.

"Jesus…"

Roger got on his knees again, as he'd done with Angel's, and vainly attempted to make things look a little better, brushing away leaves and pulling out weeds and such. The inscription on the gravestone was pathetic; Mark had handled it since he'd been too overcome with grief to even bother with anything. It wasn't really Mark's fault since they really barely knew anything about April. She'd been a runaway from the West Coast and had appeared as if she'd wanted to shed whatever she'd been in the past as quickly as she could, like Roger had felt. He concluded that her parents, if she had any, were still clueless about her death. Mark had tried to contact any relative of April's when she'd died but ended up empty-handed. It had only been three of them who'd attended the funeral: him, Mark, and the priest who did the service. It had rained that day. No one had seen how hard Roger's tears had fallen that day because of the rain.

Roger gave up in making everything neat after a while, realizing it had been too long a time and it was going to need a lot of work to get it look nice and neat. He sat down, defeated, holding the single white rose he'd bought especially for April with trembling hands.

Fuck, he felt guilty. Not just for April's death but also for the pathetic excuse for a grave they'd let her have: her name, plus the year of her birth and the year of her death. She deserved more. He should have given her more, even in death. Looking at the grave made Roger feel as if April, from a bystander's point of view, had been a nobody: had just been a speck who'd suddenly appeared, lived and breathed and fought amongst a million other little specks for a few years before disappearing. Fuck, she _hadn't _been a nobody, at least not to everyone. She'd been _somebody_ to him. He'd loved her as much as he loved Mimi now, as much as he loved his friends. He wanted the world to know that, but all he could give her was a cheap old gravestone with an inscription dotted with barely significant details. April…she'd been a sweet girl. She could never curse at Mark since she felt sorry for him since he already had a grouchy musician to deal with. She'd kissed the tips of his fingers lovingly after he practiced and they hurt like crazy. Unlike him, after taking smack, she'd still be in full control of herself, and she'd keep him on a tight leash to make sure he couldn't do anything stupid. She was sweet in ways Mimi had never been, and Roger loved April for it. The girl still held a special place in his heart.

"Oh babe…" Roger stared sadly at the gravestone. "…shit…"

He wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket since the tears had started coming sooner than he'd expected. He retained his sitting position, longing for the intimacy he and April had once shared. She'd been a fantastic secret-keeper as well as a great actress, some of the reasons why it had taken so long for Mark to figure out what they'd been messing around with.

"I'm sorry it's been so long…and…for this. Fuck, I didn't mean…I didn't mean to abandon you…shit…"

What could he say to cover this up? The deed had been done, he _had _abandoned her and there was no denying it. He just had to face the music.

"I have to admit…that I never thought once about coming back here." Roger decided to just talk. Just talk and talk and talk without thinking. "It…it hurts to think…to remember…what had been. It's Mark's doing…why I'm here now…but I'm not sorry I came back. Damn…you deserve more than this."

He remembered when he, April and Mark had lived in the loft together. She and Mark used to get into these trivial fights all the time and she'd more often than not, storm away after shouting at him, "You're a…a…GEEK!". The girl could never swear really at Mark, though _he'd _been the target of her nonstop cursing several times. She'd also had those Magic Markers all over the place. Damn, April had loved drawing. She'd doodled all over the place.

And of course, he remembered when he'd convinced her into taking her first hit.

"_Are you sure, babe?" April looks at him with worried eyes. He's almost through in preparing the syringe so he nods. The craving for a hit is getting stronger and stronger and Roger feels almost manic as each second passes._

"_Sure, babe, I swear, it'll make you feel all better. I'll go first then I'll help you do yours."_

_Roger's eyes gleam as the smack's all ready to be shot up. Fuck the tourniquet. He wants a hit and he wants it now. April watches him eagerly._

"I'm…I'm sorry, April…for turning your life into shit." Roger's voice had dropped into a whisper. He had to get this off of his chest. "I was wrong…I was an ass. I shouldn't have…I shouldn't have had you try…fuck. I was bad news. You paid for it. I'm paying for it now. God, I'm sorry…"

He unconsciously traced the track marks on his arm that lay underneath his jacket. He shuddered at the knowledge that they were there, and would always be: a permanent reminder of a deed that cost them their lives. He remembered Mark, who'd helped him go through withdrawal, withstood his shit, and had kept him clean at whatever price. The look Mark had worn on his face the night before would haunt Roger forever. This just wasn't about him and April; it was about the three of them who would all be paying, or who'd already paid, for his fucking mistake.

"I deserve the guilt, I know…but Mark…he doesn't." He felt like a little kid in the principal's office, finally admitting that he'd been the one who'd put the cherry bomb in the toilets after the quiet kid had taken the blame for it for months. "I was too fucking selfish…and I dragged both of you down with me. It's killing me, babe. You know Mark…he's always been the sensitive guy, the good kid…but fuck, I've never…I've never met anyone so goddamn _selfless _my whole life…I owe him peace of mind…I owe him this…I promised him…"

He placed the rose gently on the grave that was a bit neater now than what it had been a while ago.

"Forgive me. Please."

A bird chirped nearby. The wind whistled in the trees. The last of Roger's tears fell and he gave a sad smile. Something inside of him finally felt free.

He started to talk, about everything. He told April everything from the top of his head: Mimi and their marriage, Angel and the short but happy time they'd spent with each other, Mark and how Maureen had dumped him but how both were pretty happy now, and even Dodge and the not-so-successful training. He talked about how happy he was, how perfect everything was appearing to be, how he missed her now that he had the guts to bring her memory back, the fun they used to have that wasn't related to drugs…He had a lot to tell April. He was thankful to her for a lot of things almost as much as he was sorry. In a way, he owed her for bringing Mimi to him. He loved Mimi, even more than he loved himself, but his love for the girl who was his first muse would always be there, locked away in a secret part of his heart, even after he said his goodbyes to her.

When Roger left half an hour later, April's grave didn't look the same anymore: The weeds were gone; the grass was shortened to a more presentable level; a beautiful, fully bloomed white rose was lovingly placed near the gravestone; and the inscription on the stone marker had changed. Something had been written below the years of birth and death in a black permanent marker and then scratched in with a Swiss Army Knife, as if to ensure it would be there despite the rain, sleet and snow:

_April Ericsson  
__1966-1988  
__My first real song: Thank you for everything.  
__I'm sorry for everything.  
__I love you despite everything._

**A/N: Sorry it's short, but I'm starting to feel sorry for this particular character of Roger I'm writing about. He's so tortured it hurts to write about how he thinks and feels.So I cut the drama off at its knees. Sorry if you expected more. I just thought him feeling so bad about how the grave looked like and how empty the inscription was that he decided to put in his own inscription as _so_ Roger since it's impulsiveness at its best. Lol. It's not meant to be disrespectful or anything though. I made April's character not as bad as she appeared to be on the film; from this chapter, you can get that Roger's worse than she'd been. Haha. **


	18. I'm Fine

XVIII.

**March 15, 1991 **

"MARK!" Roger shouted in a hoarse voice at him from the couch where the musician lay, immobile under a pile of blankets, his hair tousled and his eyes wide. "Are you crazy? NO!"

Mark almost laughed, but kept it in. The situation would've been pretty funny since it wasn't one Roger wanted to be in, but the reality of it all was pretty dire, so Mark really found nothing to laugh at: Roger was bedridden with a high fever and was so sick that he and everyone else had actually already suggested a visit to the hospital, but the musician wasn't having it, and no one could really make Roger Davis do anything if he really didn't want to. Mark would have stayed home since Mimi really couldn't care for her husband when it came to something like this, but he was running out of excused absences at work, and they couldn't do without the money Buzzline paid. So he'd called in backup.

"Don't shout, baby boy, it'll only make your throat worse!" Maureen scolded from the door as she put her coat away where Dodge couldn't reach. Dodge yapped around her legs and she picked him up and petted him.

"Okay, Mo, the times of the meds are all on the fridge, make sure he takes the AZT and Tylenol and all those other fever medicines at the right time, okay?" Mark wound his scarf around his neck.

"Yeah yeah, sure, Pookie. I'm sure Dodge and I can handle Trouble for the day just fine." Maureen was cooing distractedly at the puppy as she spoke. Mark sighed, wondering if he'd made the right decision. If he was lucky, Roger wouldn't have killed Maureen, Maureen wouldn't have had Roger OD on cough medicine and the loft would still be intact by the time he came home later.

"Joanne can come and help later, she said…" he suggested.

"Yep, she told me. Bye, Marky! Say bye-bye to Uncle Marky, Dodger," Maureen raised one of Dodge's small yellow paws and had him wave bye.

"MARK!" Roger called still. He looked panicked/mortified at the thought of the drama queen being there with him the whole day. Mark pitied him for about a couple of seconds before dismissing it as the best option. Better that than Roger be left alone when he needed to take a lot of meds. Often, the musician forgot to or took the wrong dosage.

"You want anything from the supermarket, you guys?" Mark said before he left. "I'm going to get the groceries later."

"Ooooh, get me some of that nice veggie pizza, will you, Mark?"

"GET…HER…OUT…OF HERE!" Roger exclaimed in the loudest voice he could. Maureen clucked.

"And maybe some hard liquor in case Trouble here's gonna play hard. Your Daddy's bad, isn't he, Dodge? Yes, he is."

"Right, I'll see you guys later. Thanks, Mo. Feel better, Rog!" Without another thought, Mark exited the loft, almost eager to leave. Maureen and Roger together, plus a very hyper puppy, usually meant a lot of trouble, but it had to be done. Roger was just too weak.

Mark couldn't put his mind at ease the whole time he jogged downstairs, hearing Roger's muffled shouts from upstairs. He knew Roger was hiding something. He'd kept an eye on his best friend for the past few days and had concluded that the musician wasn't as healthy as he let on. There were some afternoons when he'd come home early from work when Roger would be alone in the loft with Dodge, when he'd hear the coughing, dry and sounding almost like pings, from the stairwell. Three afternoons he'd witnessed that, and he knew it was anything but 'nothing', as Roger had told him about what the doctor had said when he'd gone for a checkup nearly a month ago.

The other day he'd gone home to a silent loft and had chanced upon Roger sleeping on the couch with a blanket draped over him and with part of his socked foot showing, while Dodge wasn't anywhere to be found. It had been so peaceful in the loft that it didn't seem as though they lived there. In fact, it had been eerie and had made chills run up and down Mark's spine as he'd entered, but that hadn't been the main reason for it happening.

There was something about seeing Roger with his eyes closed that frightened Mark. He had had thoughts before about him coming home one day and discovering his best friend had died while he was away, specifically while Roger looked as though he was just taking a nap on the couch or on his bed. God forbid, the thought and the huge possibility of it happening scared the fuck out of him, which was why he always went home early enough. So when that sight had greeted him upon coming home, he had literally stopped in his tracks as his breath got caught in his throat.

_Oh my God…stay calm. He's probably asleep…just sleeping…_he'd thought.

His frantic mind had been thinking up all sorts of thoughts and his heart had been racing with fright. Eventually he'd found the guts to approach his friend. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that, yes, Roger was breathing so he was only asleep.

_Oh thank God. Jesus._

Mark had released a relieved sigh and had studied the musician. It was nearly impossible to get a good look at Roger when he was awake since he was constantly in motion or refused eye contact since he was always writing or strumming his guitar. Roger was the absolute opposite when he was asleep: he barely moved, and at that moment had enabled Mark to see if there was something in his friend's physical features to tell him if anything was wrong.

He'd noticed before that Roger had gotten thinner, but the lack of color in Roger's cheeks had worried him. His skin had almost been translucent, making the dark circles under his eyes (which Mark only noticed just now) more obvious. The thin hands with the tapered fingers that Mark had seen play Musetta's Waltz and other assorted songs on the Fender a billion times before, had trembled as they clutched the blanket. Roger had been shivering. Mark had reached out and placed his hand on the musician's forehead.

Roger had been burning up.

It had been the nth time that Roger had gotten sick for the past three months. He got fevers on and off, which wasn't really a good sign. Fevers were a sign of a more serious illness, but whatever it was, Mark had no idea and he was almost afraid to find out. He had been about to withdraw his hand when Roger had woken up, revealing hazy green eyes under heavy eyelids.

"_God, I'm glad you're home. Didja bring any food?" his best friend asks weakly. Mark almost laughs. Typical Davis._

"_I can go to the grocery store now, if you want anything. The fridge is near empty, I'm guessing." He squats to get to the musician's level. "What the hell happened to you?"_

_Roger gives a half-hearted shrug and places a hand on the side of his head as if it hurt. His eyes are half-closed. "I dunno…Just didn't feel well all of a sudden. So I lay down…and slept."_

_Mark doesn't believe the 'all of a sudden' part. He knows Roger Davis doesn't usually lie, but he can very well force himself to when he wanted._

"_Roger, what exactly did the doctor tell you during your last checkup? Maybe you should go back. I'll go with you…" He tries his best not to sound interrogative because Roger usually clams up whenever he feels he's being grilled. His best friend's face twists into a frown._

"_It's a cold spring, Mark. Flu season and all that stuff. Germs are everywhere. What does the checkup have to do with anything?"_

"'_Cause maybe you should go back and…" _

"_I'm fine." Roger says it with an I-don't-want-to-hear-anything-more-about-it-tone. _

"_Yeah, but maybe you could…"_

"_I said I'm fine."_

Mark looked up at their apartment building before he got on his bike to go to work. He was worried. There was something Roger wasn't telling him. The 'fine' wasn't really relevant, with all the physical evidence the musician had that wasn't even remotely close to 'fine'. He sighed again. That's all he was good at doing now: sighing. Fuck.

**

* * *

**Roger didn't need a doctor to tell him what he already knew. He knew his pneumonia was getting worse. He felt it get to him more and more each day. There were some days when he could barely get up and he'd just lie down the rest of the day. There was also days that he'd be absolutely drained after doing something as simple as taking a shower, and the pains, God. He felt like an old man sometimes. It was almost ridiculous, his lack of strength, and it frustrated him, but he told no one. Mimi suspected nothing, but he sensed Mark had started to pick something up. It wouldn't be long now before the filmmaker would force him into going to the doctor's chaperoned. Fuck. How long could he keep this up? He was going to have to consider being either a better liar or actor. 

Yesterday he'd thrown up several times. The first two times, he'd actually thrown up something, but the next three times, he'd just gone to the bathroom and just gagged; his stomach had had nothing more to bring back up. It was disgusting. He was getting tired of all the pain and the constant medication. It was too much sometimes. To top it off, _Maureen Johnson _was there, acting like a babysitter. He couldn't believe how much of a traitor Mark was. Shit. He'd rather die a thousand deaths than be stuck on the couch, completely helpless, and knowing he was going to have to depend on Maureen the whole day. Ah fuck.

"Are you warm enough, Pookie? You want anything?"

"Mimi." He told her, sniffing, because his goddamn nose was clogged, making him sound like some sort of crybaby. He wanted to have his wife hug him tight. He wanted to feel her in his arms and smell her scent in. "And you to go. I can take care of myself."

"Right. And Napoleon was French." Maureen rolled her eyes as she passed. "Face it, Rog, on some days you're just going to have to admit you need someone to help you. Stop being such a damned martyr. We all need a little help sometimes."

"Napoleon _was _French, Mo. Try again. And I don't need your help." It hurt. Everywhere. Fuck. He tried to move, but then his joints screamed in pain. Dodge barked worriedly as he moaned.

"There, see, you've gone and hurt yourself," Maureen appeared out of nowhere. "Just stay put baby boy, and I'll handle everything."

"I'm _not _a cripple, Mo!" Roger gritted his teeth. Oh, the pains in his chest were back. Why oh why…it felt as though someone had beaten him up but only on that part. He groaned in pain as Maureen helped him to lie on his back again and placed a hand on his forehead.

"See, Davis, your fever's still there. Just lie down. Jesus, how can Mimi stand you? You're worse than a bratty second-grader." She tucked him in again. Roger couldn't protest. With Maureen standing less than a meter away from him, her heady perfume quickly got to him. He'd never minded how she smelled before, but he had always found it a little too strong. Now, even with his nose clogged, he felt as though he were drowning in a flower field. His head throbbed and his throat tickled even more.

"Oh God…Mo…" Roger felt his face screw up to sneeze. His hands flew up to his face. "_Ah-choo! Ah-choo!"_

"Ohhh, poor baby." Maureen cooed, brushing back his hair. He wanted to brain her with a pillow and demand for him to be left alone, taking with her the strong perfume, baby talk and lipstick smears she left everywhere. She'd always annoyed him to death somehow, even when she was still going out with Mark. She wasn't that bad of a person, but God, Maureen was a clingy type somewhat, and he needed his goddamn space, even when he was sick.

"Just…go away…and I'll just…_ah-choo!…_get some sleep." Roger practically pushed the drama queen away to get her to move. His head was swimming. Oh God.

"I'll make us some lunch and…" Maureen cut herself short. "Is this Mark's, Roger?"

"What?" Roger forced himself to open his eyes and saw Maureen reaching out to get something from the coffee table. It took about three seconds for him to realize what it was. "NO, Maureen!"

It was his journal, lying vulnerable there, inches away from Maureen Johnson's fingers. If she read it, his secret would be out. Maureen was no genius, but his songs (which doubled as entries) were pretty easy to understand. She'd know right away about how he'd lied to Mark about the PCP diagnosis and everything. And the list. Fuck.

Maureen visibly jumped. "What the hell?"

"Don't touch it!"

It took all of Roger's strength for him to sit up, snatch the journal from the coffee table and hug it to his chest as he lay back down. The drama queen raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh I see. It's yours. Well you don't have to go shouting at everything, Davis. I wasn't going to read it anyway."

"Yes you would." He was sick, but he wasn't stupid. The saying "Curiosity killed the cat" suited Maureen Johnson very very well, especially when she was actually in her cat outfit.

Maureen feigned a look of shock. "How dare you accuse me! For your information, I have never read anyone's journal or diary in my life."

"You have and would and you wouldn't even feel guilty after," he scoffed. "Remember, that's how we all found out Benny had gotten hooked up with Muffy. You went through his diary-planner thing." The last words were caught up in a wheeze as he got into a coughing fit again. God, if there was anything he hated, it was the coughing. It just goddamn hurt. It felt as though his lungs were on fire. He didn't know how much longer his throat could handle the strain. He curled up, wanting to be left alone in his own misery, when he felt Maureen's hands on his back.

"Oh God, Roger, I'm sorry. Shit, Mark's gonna kill me for aggravating you…Are you okay?"

"Do I fucking look okay?" he asked, his voice stifled by the pillow he had his face shoved into. "Just leave me alone."

There was silence for a while. Maureen had probably given up.

"I'll just make the lunch, okay? Just lie there…just…rest, okay, Davis? Don't make this any harder than it already is." He heard as Maureen straightened up then as Dodge whimpered, begging the drama queen for her to pick him up. Roger heaved a sigh. He knew he was being a prick. He usually was when he was sick, since his temper was always radically shortened to a fraction of what it really was; he could actually almost hear his mother's voice in his head: "_Matthew Roger Davis, how dare you speak to a young lady that way! Where are your manners, young man? There is no excuse for your behavior!" _

His coughs ceased and he forced himself to lie on his back again, though he was more comfortable on his side. He _was _partly grateful for Maureen for putting up with him. Not many people did. A little dose of manners now and then wouldn't kill him.

"Mo," he called, feeling the scratchiness in his throat. God, could he ever sing again? He felt as though half of his throat was destroyed. "Maureen."

"What, baby?" she emerged from the kitchen, a box of mac n' cheese in hand and Dodge trailing behind her, a dish towel in his mouth. "You like this, don't you? 'Coz I really don't know how to make anything else, and your kitchen doesn't have any more food…what was it you were saying?"

"I'm…I'm sorry if I'm being…you know…such an asshole," he said after hesitating a bit. It was one thing to apologize to Mark, and it was another to apologize to Maureen. The latter usually involved a lot of pomp and circumstance, which Roger rarely wanted. The minute he said it, Maureen's face brightened up, this big smile spreading from one side of her mouth to the other as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. He braced himself for any pinching, kissing, hugging, squealing or whatever girly shit Maureen loved to do.

"Well this is a first!" she said happily. She approached him in happy little hops and landed a huge lipstick-laden kiss on his forehead. "It's okay, baby. I understood long ago that men really can't help but be assholes. That's why I'm a lesbian! I'll be back with lunch!"

She went off to prepare the food before Roger could retort anything, but he found himself smiling instead of being pissed. Okay, so he deserved that.

"Thanks, Mo," he muttered, half-laughing to himself.

Finally glad to be out of the Maureen-radar, Roger retrieved his journal from the recesses of the sofa and opened it to the page where the list was, making a mental count of what he'd already achieved. Half had already been done. He had to hurry and get the other half finished.

A clunking sounded from the kitchen, as well as the sound of his beeper from somewhere in the loft. His AZTs were due. Quickly, he shoved the journal back under the blankets as Maureen appeared again, several bottles in hand.

"Okay, Marky said the beeper tells when the AZTs should be taken so that's this one…" she isolated a white bottle and tossed it over to Roger, who caught it but almost dropped it in the process. "And…what time is it? Why don't you have a damned clock in your house? You're supposed to take this cough medicine at 12, and the one for fever at 11…do you need Tylenol?"

Roger popped his AZTs in dry. Shit, they were gross. "Mark has a watch, that's how he keeps track of the time. Don't you have one?"

"No, I don't have one…oh God, well what are we gonna do? You don't have a TV here either so we can't tell time from the shows." Maureen bit her lip, looking as if she were thinking really hard, which Roger doubted. "Well…we could always guess the time…"

Roger stared at her. "Then what? We're gonna count minute by minute after it up to when I take them again?"

"Well you get an idea then. Mark specifically said that you have to take them. I won't doubt that he's gonna count these pills when he comes home to see if you really did." Maureen thrust the rest of the bottles forward.

"Fuck them, I'm not taking any unless it's at the right time." Roger frowned. The cough medicine wasn't even in pill form; it was syrup. And he absolutely _detested _cough syrup. It made him barf. He lay down on his side and buried his face in the back of the sofa.

"Roger!" Maureen placed her hands on her hips, though she didn't exactly look threatening. "Fine, I'm calling Mimi up to see what time it really is, and when I find out, you have to take whatever medicine y'have to, okay?"

Roger listened as she stomped off towards the phone and dialed. It didn't take long to connect to Mimi and Maureen didn't take long either with the call. Moments later, she stomped back to the couch.

"The cough medicine is due at 9, 12, 3 and 6, Mimi told me, so y'have to take it now, plus the fever medicine, since it's now, like, 10:30."

Fuck no. Even Mimi and Mark had a hard time making him take that god-awful syrup. Maureen was going to have to put up a good fight. He pulled the blankets over his head.

"Roger Davis!" Maureen exclaimed, but he wasn't giving up that easily. The mutual truce that had been established a while ago from his apology had apparently disappeared and they were back to being themselves. "Stop acting like a fucking six-year-old!"

Roger could sense that it was going to be a long day.

**

* * *

**Mark found both Maureen and Roger knocked out in the living room when he arrived home, groceries in hand. Dodge ran up to him and stood on his hind legs, begging to be petted, so Mark did, keeping an eye on the duo, fast asleep in the living room. The kitchen was a mess: a cheese-encrusted pot stood on the stove, while several bowls filled with a mac n' cheese mixture of a different color (more brown than yellow) stood on the counter. He placed the groceries next to the bowls and walked over to Roger and Maureen. 

The musician was sprawled out on the sofa, almost half of the blankets kicked away as if he'd squirmed a whole lot, and his face was turned towards the back. Mark felt his forehead: the fever was down since Roger had broken into a sweat, but they still had to keep an eye on him. He turned his attention on the drama queen.

Maureen was on one of the armchairs, looking defeated, her head back and her mouth open, letting out little snores. Both her arms were splayed out over the rests and a mess of sticky syrup and pills was scattered on the coffee table. It was a good thing Dodge was still too small to reach the top of it. But he wasn't too small to get his paws on a few of their stuff, as several shoes were all over the place, as well as chewed-on magazines and newspapers. There was also the undeniable scent of puppy poop coming from somewhere. Mark sighed. He reached out to shake Maureen awake, and the drama queen did, her eyes bloodshot.

"Did…everything go well?" he was almost too afraid to ask. Maureen's eyes narrowed at him.

"Your best friend can be a real fricking sweetheart." She said. "But don't worry, he got _all _his meds down."

Mark nodded. At least that happened. He couldn't have cared less if they'd blown the loft up, as long as Roger managed to take his meds.

"His…fever's broken," he reported with a smile. Maureen stood up, brushed her hands on her pants and walked to the door.

"Good. At least he won't need a babysitter any longer. Good luck with him, Pookie. And good luck to Mimi too." It was clear she had no intentions of staying any longer, or of even getting the veggie pizza she'd asked him to buy. Mark understood. He knew what Roger was like sick.

So she left. And Mark sighed. Again.

TBC

**A/N: To refresh your memories, Roger's been diagnosed with PCP, or pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, like a month back (Chapter 8). It basically hits HIV-infected people. I'm not entirely happy with how this story's going...hmm. I need to rethink it. Anyway thank you all those who keep reading and reviewing! The story's still basically going on because of y'all. :)**


	19. Curveballs

**A/N: No worries, folks. I'm continuing the fic. :) Thank you for all the kind reviews. **

XIX.

**March 16, 1991 **

"Rog, don't go out, okay? You're still recovering and you might catch a bug…"

"Yeah yeah yeah Mark, I know. You've told me a billion times."

"I mean it. Don't leave the loft."

The only response Mark got from the lump on the bed was a grunt.

"Roger…"

"I _heard _you, Cohen, now fucking go to work already!"

A pillow flew towards his direction and Mark ducked before it hit him. Well, at least Roger was definitely feeling better now.

"I'll see you and Mimi later."

**

* * *

**  
Roger kept his hands in his pockets as he wound slowly through the streets, reserving his draining energy as much as he could. Yeah, so Mark had told him not to leave the loft, and he wouldn't have, especially since he felt like crap and all he really wanted to do was stay in bed and sleep. But the call he'd been waiting for had finally come through, so there he was, on his way to tie up a few more loose ends. It wasn't going to take long anyway. At least Mark hadn't had Maureen come again because the bitch would probably strap him to the bed to ensure he'd stay. 

He'd been told that they could meet near the Life, in an alleyway, if he wanted, since he'd asked for a near-enough, but fairly-secluded place where he couldn't bump into anyone he knew. But he told the guy to just meet him in the park since it was a bigger place and they could easily blend in, just in case.

"Are you Roger Davis?"

They were by the benches, just inside of the park. Roger found himself face-to-face with a somewhat tall, medium-built man in a dark jacket, jeans and boots. The guy's face was hard and stern. The mustache made things worse. This wasn't a guy you wanted to mess with.

"Yeah." He returned breathlessly after coughing a little into his hand. "Are you Fremont?"

The guy answered with a slight nod. "Ready to do business?"

Roger nodded, then placed a hand on his chest. The world was spinning. He felt as though he'd run a fucking marathon. Fremont stared at him with a slight frown.

"You feeling all right? Maybe we should do this another…"

"No. No. I'm great. Can we just do this sitting down? I gotta catch my breath a sec…"

No way were they doing this another time. This was going to be done today. Just today. After that, he would swear he wasn't going to do this again. Fremont gave him a smug smile. Roger wanted to hit him. What did the guy care right? He was just in it for the money.

"If you're sure."

**

* * *

**  
Mark glanced at his watch. It was lunchtime. He wondered if he should call up the loft. He was uneasy somewhat, though he couldn't place why. Was Roger okay? He was probably eating now, if he wasn't lazy enough. Or maybe he was still in bed…maybe he should call up Mimi and ask her to check up on him. Roger was always more cooperative when it came to his wife. 

"Mark?" a voice permeated his consciousness and knocked him back to reality. "Mark! I need you in Alexi's office! Now!"

It was Fred, Alexi's slave. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack. From somewhere in the corridor, he could hear Alexi shouting his name.

Shit. She probably had a problem with the new reel he sent. Fuck.

Mark jogged over to Alexi's office. Roger was probably okay. He was, wasn't he? He'd just check later. Or maybe he'd go home early. Just so he'd stop feeling anxious.

"Mark!"

Later. Later, he'd call.

**

* * *

**The little rendezvous with Fremont had taken longer than Roger had expected. God, the day was a bitch. He just wanted to crawl into bed and pass out. He pushed himself to hurry in case Mark or Mimi called. If Mark found out he'd left, the filmmaker would kill him. And then the questions would come. Shit. He didn't want to handle that now. 

By the time he got to the stairs to get up to the loft, Roger was starting to feel light-headed. He was still breathless, like he'd felt at the park a while ago. Fuck, he'd just hurried up a _little bit. _What was wrong with him?

He paused in the middle of his ascend to catch his breath. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. _He could feel his hands get clammy. Was he getting asthma or something? He feared it was the pneumonia, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

_I just gotta get up to the loft then I'll be okay, _he thought to himself, shaking his head tog et rid of his dizziness. _Just move, don't stop. _

The many steps that sat in front of him, waiting for him to climb them all, seemed to taunt Roger. Fuck, now even stairs were getting the best of him.

_Just move. Don't stop._

**

* * *

**"Cohen! Phone call!" 

Alexi and Mark looked at the doorway where Fred stood, holding the phone. Alexi looked irritated. She was wearing her I-am-the-bitch-boss-and-all-you-slaves-better-do-what-I-say-face. Apparently, Mark's new segment hadn't complied with her 'fresh and edgy' standard. She wanted more cutting-edge life drama. She was halfway in yelling at Mark so when Fred appeared and cut her off, it didn't put her in the best of moods.

"Didn't I tell you we weren't supposed to be disturbed?" she practically shrieked at Fred, who cowered behind the doorframe.

"Who is it?" Mark found his voice. He wanted to know. It was _his _fucking phone call, not Alexi's.

"I didn't get it…but she sounded urgent…" squeaked Fred.

Mark ran a list of the people who knew his number at the office…it had been a 'she'? Maureen? Joanne? Mimi?

Shit, any of them calling at work meant bad news.

"Alexi, I have to take this call…I'm sorry…I'll be right back." He swiped the phone from Fred and left the room despite his boss' protests. He rushed to his own corner of the office, where the phone's cradle sat so he could be alone. From behind him, Alexi started yelling at Fred. Today wasn't a good day for Buzzline. It was probably that time of the month for their man-eater boss.

"Hello?" Mark spoke into the phone. There was a muffled sobbing on the other line. Mark felt his heart beat faster. "Hello?"

"M-Mark, you…Mark…R-Roger…"

Yes, it was Mimi all right. Fuck, what had happened? His feet had suddenly turned into twin blocks of ice and Mark felt the nausea from fear climbing rapidly up his throat.

"Roger? What happened? Mimi, Mimi…talk to me please. Are you all right? Is he all right?"

He could hear Dodge barking endlessly in the background. Shrill yaps that Mark could only translate as the puppy's own version of anxiety. He'd never heard Dodge bark that way before and it made his skin crawl. Mimi could barely string two words together.

""I came h-home early…Roger…he…I saw…he's collapsed on the l-landing…I don't know if he's…I don't k-know…I…I…" She was hysterical. "Mark…Mark…please…help me…"

She didn't need to say anything more.

"I'm coming home."

Fuck Alexi. Fuck Buzzline. Mark hung up and hurriedly headed for the door.

TBC

**A/N: Who's Fremont? What's Roger up to? What'll happen?Stay tuned!Lol. Please r/r. )**


	20. RealLife Drama

XX.

**March 16, 1991 _(continued from previous chapter)_**

Mark watched as Mimi sat by Roger's bedside, brushing her fingers gently through his hair as the musician slept, holding his hand in her own and kissing it softly. She couldn't stop looking at her husband, and Mark felt as though she was trying to memorize every inch of Roger's face. Their room was lit by a lone incandescent lamp, casting a yellow light at Mimi on the chair and Roger on the bed, curled up on his side with the blankets up to his shoulder, a damp washcloth on his forehead and his features relaxed in a relieved expression, as if he was so glad to be on his bed again.

Mark massaged his forehead; a headache was forming from the day's events. He watched tiredly Mimi whispering little things into Roger's ear, not caring if she was heard or not, stroking her husband's cheek lovingly, holding back tears that Mark knew threatened to fall any minute. Alexi wanted cutting-edge life drama? Fuck, he was living one. His best friend was dying, as well as two more of his close friends. And he was going to have to live with that fact, as well as the fact that he was going to be there to helplessly watch them waste away, take their final breaths and be buried six feet under the ground, for the rest of his life. But among all the people he'd encountered in the twenty-six years he'd been on this damned earth, the most love he'd felt and seen had been from them, his friends whose days were all numbered. He'd never experienced that sort of love before, that togetherness and that support, not even from his own mother. Fucking ironic, it was. _That _was drama.

"Meems," he finally broke the stillness and the young Latina looked at him. "C'mon, let's get some food…"

If she could, Mark knew Mimi would sacrifice herself for Roger so he constantly had to keep an eye on her as well. Thankfully, Mimi wasn't as hardheaded or stubborn as the musician, so he often had an easier time in getting her to do stuff she had to do, like taking her AZT or eating. Mimi looked hesitant in accepting his invitation, but Mark cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen, meaning he wanted to talk as well as eat, which he knew she'd agree to. He didn't wait for her but continued on to the kitchen, where he heated up some water on the stove for some tea. There was some takeout in the fridge from Joanne so they could have that too. Neither of them was picky when it came to food anyway.

He was preparing the food when Mimi stepped out of their bedroom, stopping by Dodge's 'bed', which was a crib they'd recently gotten from a secondhand store and where they had the puppy sleep in, to check on him. Mark gave a small smile as he watched her discreetly. Mimi was a caring type. Roger was lucky to have her.

"How is he?" Mark asked as Mimi sat down at the kitchen counter adjacent to him. He passed one of the takeout boxes to her.

"Sleeping. Safe." She sighed. "Burning up with a fever. Again. God…"

She speared the noodles fiercely with a fork and bit her lip. Mark reached out and held her hand. She was scared. He was scared. The day had just been a really bad one, from feeling terror that afternoon upon discovering Roger unconscious on the landing about two flights down from where the loft was, and even up to the events that had transpired after that, in addition to his already fucked-up day at Buzzline. Mark had felt he was going to have a premature heart attack from all the emotional stress.

_Roger is alive. He's sitting up and leaning against the wall with his head in his hands. Mimi is holding on to him, crying and shaking, looking frightened out of her wits. The air is sour with the smell of vomit._

"_Oh God…" Mark feels as though his lungs are about to burst. He's pedaled as fast as he can to get home as quickly as possible. To see Roger there, sitting up, alive and breathing, when he thought just minutes ago that he's going to have to face a doctor telling him his best friend will never wake up, just gives him an indescribably ecstatic feeling. He wants to run to Roger, hug him, hit him, whatever, just to make sure he's there and he's okay._

"_He's okay…he's okay…" Mimi says in between sobs, turning her head so she's facing the filmmaker. "He woke up…"_

"_Mark…?" Roger groans as he lifts his head. He looks terrible. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead and his skin is ashen. His shirt is stained. The vomit's come from him. "Oh shit…"_

"_What the fuck did you do to yourself? Why'd you leave the loft?" Mark knows that now isn't the right time to be reprimanding the musician, but he can think of nothing else to say. A million different thoughts and emotions run through him like a bad New York traffic jam. "I'm calling 9-1-1…"_

"_No!" _

_He feels Roger grab his ankle as he makes his way up the stairs to the loft. It's a weak hold, one Mark can easily pull away from, but he doesn't. _

"_What the hell--? Roger, we have to get you looked at…" He isn't sure if Roger really understands what's going on or if the musician's really in his right mind, so he speaks slowly and carefully. He also does it to calm himself. Shit. He wants to puke or pass out himself from extreme fear or extreme relief or maybe both. _

"_I know what just happened…I passed out…I'm tired that's all. You're right, I never should've left the loft…and I'm sorry…but please, Mark, no…no doctors, no ambulance…" his best friend pleads weakly. Mark swallows a wad of spit that threatens to choke him, frozen to the spot. Roger is _begging. _The sight of the musician, the prince of pride, on the floor, holding on to him like a child, begging, hits home. _

_He watches as Mimi holds on to her husband, not caring about the remnants of vomit on his clothes or the fact that he can barely keep his eyes open, desperately whispering something in Spanish into his ear and watches as Roger holds her close to him with as much strength as he can._

"_I'm okay, babe…ssshhh…it's okay…" he hears Roger tell her feebly, his hand on her head. "I'm sorry…you got scared…"_

_Mark remains where he is. He wants a doctor to look at Roger, to tell them all what the fuck is going on. This can't be normal, these fevers, and now fainting fits, and it worries him to death. But he doesn't move. He doesn't move one inch to call anyone. _

Maybe he _is_ fine, _he finds himself thinking in desperation, _Maybe we're all just paranoid…

_He knows it's a lie. But he feels helpless. Half of him doesn't want to know what's wrong with Roger. He knows it can't be anything good. He doesn't want to know how long his best friend's got to live. _

"I should've called 9-1-1…" Mark said, shaking his head, regretting the fact that he hadn't had the balls to do it since Roger was sick again. "I should've…shit…"

"Sssh, Mark, don't blame yourself. _I _should've called 9-1-1 too…I was just…I was just too scared and my first instinct was to call you…" Mimi told him gently. Her big brown eyes were wide with fear Mark knew she hid. "I thought…I really thought he was dead…and I didn't want anyone with a white coat on telling me that he was…knowing they have the power to save other people's lives but can't save him…that they're not going to even try…"

Mark gulped. That was _exactly _what his fear was: calling an ambulance and having them, the people who are supposed to cure, just stand there unable to do nothing, because nothing can reverse death or save anyone who's been sentenced to it. He ran his hand through his hair and, from behind him, the kettle whistled. Their hot water was ready.

"I told him not to go out of the loft," Mark said as he poured them both a cup of tea. "I don't know…I don't know what the hell he's thinking sometimes…" He glanced at Mimi, but she was looking at the doorway of their room worriedly. He didn't know if she'd even heard him.

"He's gotten so thin…" Mimi turned her head and Mark saw the tears glistening in her eyes as she spoke. "He doesn't think I see…but I do…oh Marky…"

The filmmaker nodded. They'd both gotten Roger upstairs. Despite his protests that Mark was too small and Mimi was a girl and shouldn't be doing things like lifting her husband, they'd draped his arms over each of their shoulders and had wrapped their own arms around his waist. Mark had felt Roger's bones from underneath the jacket and was alarmed at how light the musician was.

"I'm scared that…I'm scared that he might be…he might be the next one to go."

Mimi bit her lip, but it didn't stop her tears from finally escaping. They cascaded slowly down her cheeks and plopped onto the kitchen counter. She held her head down, as if she were ashamed of what she'd said. Mark swallowed. He'd felt that too, but had always banished the thought. Fate was easily tempted.

"We can never know for sure, Meems…" he reached over and wiped Mimi's tears away with his thumb.

He grew silent and the only sound heard in the whole loft was Mimi's soft sobbing. He pushed the takeouts and tea aside so he could comfort her properly. Fuck dinner. Neither of them was hungry anyway.

"It isn't fair…" Mimi said softly through sobs. "Now's the only time I've been really really happy…with you guys and all…but I can't even stay that way for long. It's going to be…it's going to be taken away like everything else I've had…it isn't fair…" Her shoulders shook. "It's like I'm not allowed to be happy…"

Something inside of Mark ached at Mimi's words.

Zoom in on the selfish bastard who had only always thought of his feelings and was only realizing it now.

How could he have been so goddamn self-centered? Every time he reminded Roger of every single pill, every single appointment he had to go to, Mark had always thought of himself. He wanted Roger to live so he wouldn't be lonely. He wanted Roger to live because he wouldn't be able to stand the silence that was never there when the rock star was around. He wanted Roger to live because no one else knew him more, from their exclusive Scarsdale childhood up to how they were still surviving in Alphabet City, and if he lost the musician, he'd feel like he'd have lost half of who he was. How could it have slipped his mind that other people cared about Roger too? For fuck's sake, Roger wasn't just his best friend, he was also Mimi's husband. Mimi, who'd run away from home at sixteen, had lived on the streets, had had barely enough to eat growing up and who considered this wretched bohemian existence the best life she'd ever known. Compared to his and Roger's pampered past, Mimi deserved more. She deserved more time, more happy memories with the man she loved more than Mark did. He was more than lucky already to have known Roger Davis more than half his life, back when they were both still healthy, spoiled assholes. He was ashamed of his own actions. To him, Roger was his brother, his odd twin, his oldest and dearest friend. But to Mimi, Roger was _everything_ to her. Her life revolved around him. Roger had been the one she'd returned for after the scare they'd gotten two Christmas Eves ago. He was what still kept her clean and going. Mark just didn't have the heart to let Fate just take any of that from her without a fight, even though he knew he was going to have to move aside to let it happen.

"Mimi…Mimi…look at me…" Mark said gently, and two sad brown eyes met his own. "I promise, Roger's going to be okay, all right? He's not going to die. Not yet. I'm taking him to the doctor tomorrow. I'm going to find out what's wrong…and I'm going to get him the medicine, okay? Whatever he needs and whatever you need. I'm going to do everything…everything I can…Mimi…I promise…I want both of you to be happy…okay? Stop crying, please, Mimi…"

His throat was tight and he wanted to cry too. He couldn't stand it when Mimi cried. She was just a child, thrown into this world she wasn't supposed to have known, this world of death, poverty and pain…

'_It's like I'm not allowed to be happy…'_

Fuck. Mark's heart had broken at those words. What horrors Mimi had seen or gone through in the past was probably ten times more than he'd ever know. He wanted her to just be happy. He wanted both her and Roger to be smiling and laughing for the remainder of their shortened lives. He wanted her to know the musician as much as he had. He wanted Roger's remaining fun times to be with her. It was Mimi's turn.

"But Marky, you've got work…"

"I don't care. Roger needs a doctor and he needs it now. Alexi can just go and fuck herself," He placed a hand on Mimi's shoulder. God, why the hell did he not have a handkerchief or something? His six-year-old self wouldn't be as stupid looking as he was at the moment since _that _Mark Cohen would have had a handkerchief to wipe the ladies' tears. He felt like an idiot as he continuously went at Mimi's tears with his fingers. "You okay?"

A small smile was on Mimi's lips, set despite the tears. "I never imagined you saying anything like that."

"What?"

"'Alexi can just go and fuck herself.'" Mimi repeated, pushing his hands away and wiping her face with her own fingers. "Thanks. I'm cool."

"Roger's influence. Sorry," he said sheepishly.

Mimi smiled sadly. "I know," she stared at the simple wedding band on her finger. "He isn't perfect, but he's _my_ guy, you know? He's perfect for _me_. He evens me out and…makes me laugh and holds me in his arms where I feel like nothing's ever going to get me, not even AIDS...I don't have to be scared when I'm with him…but without him…" she pressed her lips together. "Marky, I love him so _so_ much…"

Mark nodded. It was painful to look at her, but he forced himself to. "I know."

Close-up on the beautiful Latina girl dressed in one of Roger's sweatshirts and who's trying hard not to cry again. Beautiful brown eyes glistening with invisible tears, looking out of the window at New York City that didn't give a shit about them. Fade out on the little girl lost and alone in the big city.

Mark stood up, walked over to where Mimi was sitting and gave her a hug. Mimi didn't object. She let him hold her and he did his best to provide the comfort she needed.

"I'm sorry I suck at these kinds of things…Collins or Roger was always better at this…" he muttered.

"You do great, Marky," Mimi whispered. "You do great."

"I promise I'll do everything, Meems…"

Mimi pulled away from him and lovingly touched his hair, a sad expression on her face. "You have to remember you can't save everyone, Mark, sometimes not even when you really want to…"

"I know."

"I don't want you blaming yourself if…if something happens...because we…we all know that Collins, Roger and I really don't have…" her voice trailed away, but Mark knew what she meant. She was worrying for _him_. "Please, Marky."

"I still promise to do everything I can." He told her assuredly. "I'll be okay."

He wasn't going to give up. Anything he could do, he would, just for Mimi and Roger to have more time together. It kind of hurt that he was giving up, in a sense, his best friend, because he _was _still human, but Mimi needed Roger more. He'd had almost twenty years with the guy, for God's sakes. What was a few months or a year or two years maybe that Mimi was asking for? Besides it didn't mean he and Roger could stop being friends; he was just going to have to back off and let them have their space. He could do that.

The Latina smiled. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being so selfless." She seemed almost embarrassed to say it but she said it anyway. "I know it's hard…thank you, Mark."

Mark returned her smile. There really wasn't anything else to say.

"You're welcome."

**

* * *

**Roger woke up in Mimi's arms. His coughing had jolted him from sleep and made him aware of the incredible heat his body was enveloped in. He felt like he was on fire, but also felt from within him cold that wracked his body in shivers to accompany the dry, painful hacking that rattled from his chest. He could hear Mimi crying, whispering assorted things into his ear, could feel her as she held him and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wanted to comfort her. Shit this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't how he was going to die. It wasn't time. He still had a lot to do before he could fully surrender. 

"Mimi…" he gasped. The coughing interrupted everything, making his vocal chords seize up and making his chest burn, squeezing all the air out of his inflamed lungs. He could see her, a blur of wavy hair and caramel-colored skin.

"_What, baby? Oh my God…tell me…Mark! Mark!" _he could just barely hear what she said.

"I…can't…breathe…" he managed to wheeze. He couldn't stop coughing and could barely get enough air in to be able to breathe properly. He felt as though he were drowning. Fuck. He wasn't going to die of AIDS. He was going to die from asphyxiation.

_Not yet…not yet, God, not yet, please…_his soul was on its knees as the silent words ran through his mind in what he conceived as a heavenly plea.

"_Mark!"_

"_9-1-1…I'm calling…Hello? Please I need an ambulance…Avenue B…"_

Roger hunched forward as his body seemed to be adamant to expel something. His mouth opened to puke but nothing aside from gagging on air came out. He collapsed forward on the sweat-soaked sheets, wheezing. Holy fuck he was dying.

"_Hang on, baby, the ambulance is coming…oh God, don't leave me please, baby…"_

Somehow he found Mimi's hand and he gripped it with as much strength as she could. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Fuck. He couldn't go. He couldn't go without Mimi hearing him…

_God, _Roger found himself praying in desperation, _if you're going to kill me now, just please let me tell her I love her…let me tell her one last time…_

The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was Mimi over him, her lips forming 'I love you' over and over again.

**A/N: And the previous cliffhanger is taken over by another cliffhanger. Reviews are MUCH appreciated and make me write faster. Hahaha. ;) **


	21. Duties

XXI.

**March 18, 1991**

The constant pounding of the rain on the roof of the cab he and Collins were in echoed in Mark's ears. It was the first spring 'shower', though it was anything but gentle. It came down in torrents, drenching anyone or anything that was brave enough to stand even a second in it. The city outside of the cab window was hidden in a haze of water droplets and cold.

"You okay?" Collins asked him, nudging him a little.

"No," Mark didn't even bother to hide the truth. He kept his arms crossed; he was cold not only from the rain outside but also from the fear and dread he felt inside of him. He felt Collins' rough hand on his shoulder then as the bigger man squeezed it comfortingly. Mark continued to stare out the window, wishing he could go outside and drown himself. He wanted to be numb. He'd conditioned himself before for this, hadn't he? Why the fuck wasn't it working now? Mimi should be there with them, but both Collins and Joanne had decided against it. The poor girl was already a mess enough and they didn't think she could handle any more stress. She'd been staying in Maureen and Joanne's flat since the night Roger had been brought to the hospital so she could be away from the loft a little while for her to get some proper rest.

Collins' hold on him tightened. "Hey, boy, keep your head up. We don't know for sure yet."

Mark only nodded. He wanted to follow Collins' positive attitude, but he couldn't. Roger had been in the hospital for two days now and they still had no news about him or his condition since the doctors were still running tests. Today they would know. The doctor had given them the 'go' signal just that morning. Mark didn't want to think it, but deep inside of him, he knew they were nearing the end.

He'd had a dream the night before, the night after Roger was rushed to the hospital. It had been a short one, with him seeing Roger in the doorway of his bedroom, dressed how he always did whenever he was going to go out. His face had been unshaven and his eyes had looked tired. His lips had been curved in a small, knowing smile.

"_I have to go, Marky," _was all that Roger had said in that dream. After he'd said that, Mark had woken up in the loft that contained only him and Collins (who'd come home immediately after he'd heard of Roger, and Dodge was with Mimi), his face stained with tears as thunder clapped overhead.

He'd promised Mimi that Roger would hold on a little longer. It ate at him that the only promise he'd ever given her might not even be kept. Even if Roger wouldn't hold on for him, he prayed his best friend would stay long enough to give Mimi enough time to prepare herself and say goodbye.

"Mark, we're here," he heard Collins say, and he nodded. He followed the philosopher out of the cab and into the hospital, not caring if he got soaked because of his lack of initiative to open the umbrella Collins had shoved into his hands. He didn't care when the philosopher started scolding him and made him take off his drenched coat. His eyes were too busy scanning the hospital for a doctor, any doctor, so they could finally know about Roger's condition.

"You sit there. I'll handle this." Collins ordered, making him sit in the plastic chairs the hospital provided for the visitors. Mark obeyed mutely, wanting to get this over and done with. The philosopher was better at this than he was, being the calmest, not to mention the most optimistic, among all of them. Hell would be freezing over and the man would still be acting as if it were a sunny day in May.

"He's in room 188," Collins reported, as he walked back to where Mark was. Mark's heart leapt. Out of fear? Excitement? Dread? He didn't know, but the mere fact that he was going to see Roger, and that quickly, made his mouth dry.

He was afraid.

"She says you're the only one allowed: 'Mark Cohen', she said. Apparently, Roger's had the visitors filtered for some reason," Collins frowned, scratching his head. "His doctor's been notified that you're here."

"What?" That seemed unlikely of Roger.

"That's what she said," Collins shrugged and held his hand out to get Mark's own. "C'mon, boy, get your ass up there and see how our little rock star's doing."

He pulled Mark up and helped him get to his feet, but Mark could hardly walk.

"C'mon…" Collins gave him a what-are-you-waiting-for-look. Mark gulped, staring at the corridor across from him that held Roger's room.

"Col…I can't…I can't do this alone…" he stammered, looking back at the bigger man. Fuck, he really couldn't. He saw as the philosopher gave him a sad smile, though Mark guessed that it was meant to be encouraging. He knew that Collins knew how this felt, to be confronted by something like this, seeing a loved one suffering, alone. He didn't have the heart or the guts to break any sad news to Mimi after all that he'd said to her. He _knew_ he couldn't save everyone, because for God's sakes, who could…but he didn't want to fail her. He didn't want to fail Roger.

"There's no one else, Marky…you have to," Collins told him softly. "C'mon, I'll be here. I'll just be here. And Roger's waiting for you. Don't keep him in suspense."

Mark stared at the philosopher for the longest time before he licked his lips and looked at the corridor that lay in front of him. Why did Collins always have to have the answers for everything?

**

* * *

**Roger was awake when Mark came into his room, but he pretended he wasn't. He kept his eyes closed. He knew when his best friend entered, and when he sat on the chair beside the bed. He didn't want to face Mark. Mark would know soon enough about the PCP. He'd heard the doctors talking and they'd diagnosed him correctly, now they were giving him drugs through an IV. He still felt bad, because of the chest pains and the fact that the drugs they were giving him had caused him to have a slight fever, but he knew it was nothing compared to the emotional waterloo he was going to have to confront later. 

Mark didn't speak. Roger heard no _whirring _from the fucking camera that seemed to be an extension of Mark's hand, or even movement, but he didn't open his eyes. He wasn't angry; if Mark hadn't called 9-1-1, he'd have died in Mimi's arms. But he certainly wasn't happy to have Mark there, even though he was the only one Roger had allowed the doctor could speak to and visit. But there was a reason for that.

"Mr. Cohen?" Roger heard the timbre of his doctor's voice as the door to his room whined open. Dr. Callahan, a guy in his late 50s, around his father's age. Shit. This was it.

"Yes?" a squeak from the chair. Mark's voice shook.

"You are Mr. Davis'…?"

"I'm his…I'm his roommate. We've known each other s-since childhood…" Mark stuttered. He'd had that stutter since forever; Roger had helped in fixing it back then, but it always surfaced whenever Mark was nervous.

"Very well then. If you'd like to step outside for a moment please…?"

Roger heard the chair squeaking again and then the door was shut. The room was completely silent again. But he didn't dare open his eyes, just in case Callahan or Mark was looking in as they were talking. He didn't know how long Mark took, but he waited, and eventually the door opened again and someone sat on the chair by the bed. There was a few moments' silence before Mark spoke up.

"Open your eyes, Roger. I know you're awake." He heard the filmmaker say roughly. Mark was pissed, and Roger didn't blame him.

Fuck.

"You know me too well, Cohen," Roger accused without opening his eyes.

"Open your eyes. We have to talk."

**

* * *

**  
PCP. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. _Nearly_ s_evere _PCP, the doctor had told him. "He must have had it for some weeks or a month now," Callahan had said. A month. Like, when Roger had gone to the clinic. Mark didn't know if he was going to be pissed or fearful. PCP wasn't a joke, especially in patients with HIV. God, a _cold _was already dangerous to someone with HIV, what more fucking pneumonia? PCP. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. sPCP, the doctor had told him. "He must have had it for some weeks or a month now," Callahan had said. A month. Like, when Roger had gone to the clinic. Mark didn't know if he was going to be pissed or fearful. PCP wasn't a joke, especially in patients with HIV. God, a was already dangerous to someone with HIV, what more fucking pneumonia? 

He knew Roger wasn't sleeping the minute he walked into the room. He'd known him long enough, and it was even Roger who'd taught him how to look asleep so he could fake sick on school days. He was right. Mark now stared at the musician's green eyes that flashed some strong emotion. Anger? Annoyance? Fuck, Mark didn't care at the moment. He decided he was pissed for the time being. The fear could come after he'd told Roger off.

"Roger, did you know you had PCP? Did the clinic diagnose you with it already when you went for a check-up?" he demanded. "I asked you, I _asked _you, didn't I? You fucking _swore _it was nothing…"

He saw as a million different emotions ran through Roger's face, but none of them was regret. Shit. He _had _known. Mark didn't need to hear it. The tense silence said it all.

"How _could _you? How could you fucking shrug it off as _nothing?_" Mark felt as if he were about to explode and cry at the same time. "Jesus Christ…"

He ran his hands in an aggravated manner through his hair and hung his head. He couldn't look at Roger. Dr. Callahan had pretty much said it all. Roger would have to stay until he improved, which was unlikely to happen unless his T cell count miraculously rose, or until…

Mark bit his lip at the thought.

There was really nothing much anyone could do. The disease was practically eating Roger inside out. His lungs were already half destroyed from all the smoking he'd done and were in no condition to battle the pneumonia. That, plus the fact that he had HIV, made the situation pretty grim.

"How could you not have told anyone? Fuck you, Davis. Do you want to die now? Are you so eager to go? Have you forgotten that you've got a wife you're going to leave behind and how she's going to fare when you kick the fucking bucket?"

Tears stung his eyes. One tear for regret, one for guilt, one for anger, one for sadness…all the different shit he felt at the moment. He was hurt, in addition to everything. Did Roger want to die already? Did he really have nothing to live for?

"Mark. Calm the fuck down." Roger's voice was steady.

"How can you expect me to be calm? This is no fucking game, Roger. You bet with your _life _and if, for one minute, you find anything remotely funny in that, then you're…"

"Cohen, shut up for one minute and listen to me. Look at me."

Mark lifted his head, frowning. Roger was propped up on the bed, looking as pale as the sheets, but his eyes radiated a vibrancy that contradicted how the rest of him looked. God, he should've brought Collins in with him. Collins would know what to do, what to say. Unlike him. He was just blubbering like an idiot. He knew he was only making it worse, but he couldn't stop. There was no other way to look at the damned situation.

"What?" he challenged. "Go on and try to make this all fucking better because I don't see any silver lining behind this shitty cloud."

Roger glared at him. Then, his eyes softened.

"Mark, I'm dying. And you know that," the musician said, his voice hoarse. "You've known that for a long time. You knew something like this was gonna happen someday…when some virus would get a hold of me and gun me down…I knew it too, and I waited for it…"

"You could have beaten this. You could have beaten this if you'd only tried…" Mark cut in. He still couldn't understand how his best friend, feisty as he was, could have easily given up. They could've caught this on time and had done something about it.

"It was going to happen someday, Cohen, and you knew it. My T cell count was low when I was diagnosed with PCP, and I knew it was only a matter of time," Roger spoke slowly, but there was a snap in his tone. The musician sighed. "I didn't…I didn't tell you guys because I just wanted to live. Do you get that, Mark? I never wanted to _live _so badly my whole fucking life."

"If you wanted to live, you could have had yourself treated. I could have bought you the medicine, Jesus Christ, Roger…" Mark wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"You don't get it…you just don't, Mark…" Roger shook his head weakly, looking sad and disappointed at the same time. Mark felt a sting as he stared at his best friend's face, partially because, yes, he didn't get whatever the hell Roger was trying to tell him when he knew he should have.

"I would if any of this were making any fucking sense!" His voice raised a little as it always did when he got angry. "It just doesn't, Roger, it just…FUCK."

Roger didn't speak for a while and Mark didn't either. His anger was quickly being replaced by sadness, as he'd expected. This was it. This was really it. This was the time he'd been dreading to face, when he had to learn how to start saying goodbye.

"Marky…you have to let me go…you have to learn how." Suddenly, Roger's voice was weak and he sounded exhausted. "I know why you're upset…trust me, man, if you and I traded places, I'd feel the same thing. But Marky, I can't be with you your whole life. You have to learn to be on your own."

Mark felt the sting again. He didn't want to let go…how the hell could he let go? How in the world did one person just try and pretend that nearly 20 years of friendship had never existed? He didn't look at Roger, even when Roger continued talking.

"I'm so…I'm just so fucking tired, Mark. I'm tired of the pain and the meds and all the shit being sick comes with. I don't want to leave you alone, really, and _I _want to live too but…we all know that's not how it's supposed to be. Please, man…I really…I really can't handle any of this anymore. I guess you can call that 'giving up' if you want…but I didn't want to spend my last months on earth in a hospital being pumped with drugs. It's not…it's just not how I want to go. That's why I didn't tell you guys about the PCP." Roger confessed quietly, sounding defeated. "I'm sorry…I hope you understand that…."

It was there that Mark really started to cry. Cry because he felt guilty since Roger was right. Cry because he knew he was being selfish, knowing Roger was hurting more than he was. Cry because there really was no other way out of this whole mess he was in but inevitable death of the ones he loved most. He buried his face in his hands as the tears started to fall.

"No, no, I'm sorry…" Mark couldn't look up. His tears fell onto his lap and made dark spots on his already half-soaked jeans. "I've been thinking of myself the whole fucking time. I'm the one who's supposed to be sorry, Rog…I know I'm weighing you down…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…but Roger…you have to remember you have Mimi, too."

"I haven't forgotten about her…"

Mark just kept talking. If there was anything to say, he figured now was the right time.

"I know you don't have much time left…Callahan said that it'll be…it'll be about a month maybe…two, if you're lucky…even with the meds…your lungs are too weak to fight the disease …" Mark was sobbing like a child. He'd never cried so hard his whole life and he had trouble talking because of it. He wanted to keep his sobs down, but they kept pushing up his throat and messing with his words, which only reflected just how upset he was. He still kept his head down. Roger didn't react to what he'd said about how long he had left. "Mimi…Rog, I…I don't want you to be hurting or suffering any longer, and I promise…I _will _learn to say goodbye…but Mimi…for her sake, please don't try to go so soon…not so soon…please try and fight for a little while longer…."

It was only there that he had the guts to look up. His glasses had fogged up so he'd removed them to wipe his eyes. Once he had them back on, he saw, through his teary vision, that Roger too had tears in his eyes, but still managed to crack a broken smile.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," he declared, his voice cracking. He coughed painfully into his hand several times. "Is she okay?" Mark nodded and he saw a look of relief cross the musician's face. God, Roger did look terrible.

"Oh thank God. I was worried…I can't wait to see her," Roger added in a longing sort of way. He didn't need to say that he loved Mimi because Mark could see in his best friend's face just how much Roger adored his wife. It was almost tangible, his affection for her.

Mark wiped his eyes again on his sleeve, emotionally drained. For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat with each other, listening as each of them sniffled, gathered their nerves and regained their composure. Their friendship had reached a point where it went beyond words; there were times that their silences were the ones that spoke best. Mark didn't need to tell Roger about his promise or how exactly he was willing to be bumped off every single time just so the musician could have the time he loved with his wife, or how he _was _going to do his best in learning to stand on his own or about billions of other things, because he knew that somehow, Roger already knew. He was relieved that everything had been finally laid out in the open and that he finally knew what was ailing his best friend, but fear came fast and quickly caught up with the sadness he felt. What was going to happen now? What the hell were they going to do?

"Where the fuck do we go from here?" he asked softly, not expecting that Roger actually had an answer.

**

* * *

**  
"You're shitting me." Collins said in disbelief as they stood in the waiting room. "He's _okay?"_ "You're shitting me." Collins said in disbelief as they stood in the waiting room. "He's 

Mark forced a smile, keeping up what he'd said he'd do. "Yeah, he's okay. The doctor said it was a respiratory virus and that he'd responded to the treatment for it well enough…" _Lies. Lies._

Collins let out a triumphant laugh and clapped Mark's back. "That's great! That is the best news I've heard! When can we bring him home?"

"Tomorrow. If his T cell count stays up." Mark replied, trying his best to keep up with Collins' jubilatory mood. It was hard though, especially when he knew he was fucking lying to one of his closest friends. He was still remembering everything Roger had said.

"_Mark…I want to go home," _

"_What?" Mark frowns. Roger's just asked him if he could do a couple of favors for him and he agreed, but he didn't expect a request like that. "What are you talking about?"_

"_I want to go home." Roger repeats, looking straight at him. Mark is hoping that he's just joking but shit, he's not kidding around. The look on the musician's face means business. _

"_Roger, I…I don't know if that's a good idea…" Mark says. Is he crazy? It might be dangerous for Roger to be out of the hospital, with all the other viruses going around and how they can't really be always there to keep an eye on him since he and Mimi will both have to work to pay for the medicine Roger needs for the PCP. At least here, he's got everything he needs. And there's a chance still that he might recover anyway, even though it's slim…if he stays, he might actually get well._

"_I don't want to stay here, Mark. They can do nothing for me here anymore, anyway. I still…I still want to do a few more things before I go." Roger isn't taking no for an answer. Mark knows the expression the musician's wearing too well. He lets his shoulder's drop and rubs his hands together, feeling his palms getting clammy. He isn't stupid and neither is Roger. Both of them know what Callahan said. What Roger's asking for is reckless, but not too far-fetched. _

"_Roger…I don't think it's even allowed…especially with your case…" Mark starts to say, wishing Roger will just think of another favor._

"_My father can help us if they won't let me go..." The musician says carefully, though he looks as though he's regretting every word. "Though I hope we don't have to do it." _

_Mark's eyes nearly bug out of his head at the mention of the older Davis. This _was _serious, for Roger to even _think _of having his father come. "Your father? Jesus, you can just get Joanne, you know, for any legal stuff…"_

_Roger shakes his head and runs a pale, callused hand over the blankets. _

"_Mark…" he says in a low voice. "I don't want…I don't want any of them to know about the PCP…that's why I filtered the visitors."_

_Mark feels as though he's been hit in the face. _"What!"

"_I don't want them to know…" Roger admits, looking guilty. "I don't...want them to feel sorry for me. They'll be hanging around the loft every day, pretending to be happy when they're really not. I don't want them to go through that, Mark. It isn't fair. This isn't fair for you either…but you're the only one I can count on to help me get through these last…" He doesn't finish and the green eyes trail down to the sheets. The air is squeezed out of Mark's lungs. Roger is asking him to carry the secret. Alone. _

"_Not even Mimi?" Mark asks gently. These are favors from hell, but…he's willing. _

"_I…I can't. I can't do that to her. She's so happy nowadays. I don't want to go and dampen that. She'll be crying even before I'm gone, Marky. That will just…that will just make things harder for all of us." Roger isn't looking at him. A lock of unruly blonde hair hides his face from view. "I'm sorry I have to do this to you…I really am, man…but it'll only be for a little while…"_

"_No, no don't talk like that…" Mark looks down at the floor. He's the only one who's going to know that Roger will be…leaving…soon. It's a first in their friendship: The most painful secret. He can't help but feel upset._

For Roger and Mimi, _he thinks, _For them…for your dying friends, asshole. You promised Mimi.

"_Please, man…just these last favors." Roger says softly. _

_Silence. Mark looks at him, and Roger stares back. There's pity in the musician's eyes._

"_I won't tell…" Mark whispers. He licks his lips, already feeling the weight of the secret on his shoulders. What he'd do for his best friend. He's sure that, if it were him on the bed, Roger would have done the same. _

"_I'm sorry…"_

"_Don't be…" he replies, then looks down at his shoes. "But Roger…you have to think about leaving the hospital…it's…it's not safe outside, man. And there are a lot of things you have to consider…" He tries to make Roger take back the first favor. He glances up at the musician and sees his best friend looking back at him sadly, a glimmer of fear in his eyes. Mark knows, the moment he sees Roger's expression, that he's fighting a losing battle. _

"_I don't want to die here, Marky," Roger says finally, his voice almost a whisper._

_And it's enough to make Mark go out to look for Callahan and ask for permission from the doctor._

"This is great. Damn, I feel like celebrating. Ohhh man…" the philosopher rubs his hands in glee, this wide smile on his face. Then he changed his expression, as if he still wasn't sure. "You're sure you heard correctly, boy?"

Mark nodded, feeling like doing exactly the opposite of what Collins said. "Yes. I spoke to the doctor. And Rog is feeling better now. I got a chance to talk to him too…sorry we took long. There was just a lot of…stuff." He remembered how Callahan had nearly exploded at the request, but had finally given in, in the end, after he was squeezed dry of reasons for keeping Roger. He'd written a lengthy prescription of the medicines Roger had to ingest daily, though, and it wasn't going to come cheap. One drug cost nearly two hundred dollars. His Buzzline salary would cover it well enough, but then the rent would have to slide. He wouldn't forget the ecstatic look on Roger's face the minute they finally got Callahan to grant him a release. Mark still couldn't believe it had happened, that Roger was allowed to go. He'd still held on to the hope that Callahan would stick to his original decision, but he hadn't. It had only proved how hopeless Roger's case was…

"Aw, that's all right, little man." Collins enveloped Mark in a bone-crushing hug. "I can't really express how happy I am right now knowing that that boy's all right. Whew. It's a good feeling. Good feeling."

Mark wanted to cry as Collins held him, his head resting on the philosopher's broad chest. It was always comforting to be held by Collins because the philosopher was just a naturally warm and loving person. Mark couldn't believe he was lying to him. He wanted to tell Collins the truth, but he couldn't.

"What was up with the filtering though?" the philosopher pulled away as he asked the question, but his bright smile was still there. "Roger not up to seeing the whole lot of us?"

"I didn't ask…maybe he was just not feeling well that time or something…" Mark shrugged. His face was starting to hurt from all the fake smiles he's pulled his face muscles to display. God, he _was _his mother's son to be able to carry on long enough with them.

"Oh well. We'll come back for him tomorrow and this time we're bringing along the whole gang, even that rascal, Dodge. Ooooh, Mimi'll be so psyched to know her baby's okay…"

Collins ruffled Mark's hair and Mark nodded to everything he said. He was still smiling. He didn't know how long he was going to be able to keep it up. Fuck. This was his duty. This was his duty as Roger's friend, to be there for the best parts and the worst parts, even if he was going to have to do it alone. And a promise was a promise. A promise to Mimi and a promise to Roger were going to be kept, and he was at least glad for that. He remembered the dream he had had. Shit. He was going to have to start numbing himself completely.

_I'll keep smiling. I'll keep smiling and filming like you told me to…_He watched as Collins sauntered out the hospital doors, doing a little dance. The rain had stopped and the late afternoon sun shone over the wet streets, making the roads glisten. What shitty timing to have the perfect weather.

…_But fuck, I'm dying inside._

But Mark would make sure that no one would ever know.

**A/N: No, Roger didn't die and, phew, all that Mark angst drained me. Sorry if the chapter took too long. kept timing out whenever I tried to upload a document. This chapter isn't a good one and it annoys me to hell but I had to write it to get on with the next one. I _have _done my research on the PCP, but if you guys find something wrong with it, please tell me. IV treatment is usually the way to go for HIV-positive patients but, once they can, they can move to the pill version of the same drug. Shoutouts to Laurelducky for pointing out that Mimi was fifteen when she ran away, not sixteen (sorry hehe) and the rest of you for the lovely reviews. Thanks very much! Scarfy, is it really your birthday? If it is, then happy birthday:) Reviews force me to make more chapters at an insane pace, provided doesn't let me down. Haha.**


	22. Mark's Silence

XXI.

**March 22, 1991 – _Haircut. Haha._**

_Whirrrrr…_

Zoom in on Roger who, after nearly three years of neglecting his hair and letting it grow wild, had finally decided to have it cut, by his beautiful glowing wife, nonetheless, who was now wielding the shears dangerously above her husband's head.

Mark kept his hands steady as he filmed. Roger had been home for roughly four days. He could say things were almost back to normal, except for the facts that A) their little secret hung heavily over his head, suffocating him like a wool blanket on a summer's day, B) Mimi had taken a leave from work (but not class) to be with her husband the whole day, which was really good for all of them, even when Roger did nothing but sleep and /or rest, C) he and Roger had devised a scheme they devoutly followed to make sure Roger would be able to take the truckload of medicines he had to ingest daily, behind Mimi's back, and D) Roger looked sicker every day, and moved like it too, though he tried to conceal it with his cool, "Hey, what's up?" charm that was often sugarcoated with million-dollar smiles. Mark knew everything wasn't the same, but he tried his best to deal with it, even when he struggled doing so.

"So tell us Rog…what demons have possessed you to make this ultimately life-changing decision?" Mark asked, plastering a grin on his face as he circled Roger, who sat, fidgeting impatiently on a chair set in the living room, a sheet tied around his neck. He could barely look straight at Roger these days, though this time he had to, since he was filming. He caught unwillingly through the lens the almost gaunt face with the cheekbones jutting out more than normal, the day-old beard which only made Roger look sicker since it was unkempt, the dark eyebags and the sickly pallor that seemed to erase anything left that was remotely healthy in the musician. Only his eyes still held the Roger he once knew: unbroken, vibrant and energetic. At the mention of his name, Roger looked up at the camera and gave a small smile.

"Not much…thought I needed a change." He replied. "This hair's been around too long." Mark filmed as Roger got a hold of one of his curls and pulled gently.

"Babe, you're _sure_ about this?" Mimi was glancing down worriedly at her husband, as if she were having second thoughts. "This isn't one of your impulsive, go-with-the-flow decisions you're gonna end up taking back later, is it? 'Coz you do realize, hair doesn't grow back overnight and neither Mark nor I can do anything if you start whining later about it."

Roger looked up at Mimi and gave her a cheeky grin, saying out loud "I love you" as he did.

"Uh-uh, don't you go acting cute now and be such a brat later, got that?" Mimi smiled back. It was all very cheesy, but Mark didn't say anything. It was one of the billion Mimi/Roger moments he'd found himself thrown into often as a third wheel recently. "Okay, Davis, if you say so. I love you too, baby."

_Shwik shwik!_

The shears went at Roger's hair, chopping curls off in swift massive snips. Mimi had definitely done this before.

"I wish I had my guitar…" Roger moaned softly. Mark almost laughed, remembering how Roger wasn't exactly good at sitting still without anything he was interested in, in his hands. Wispy waves of blonde hair fell softly to the floor like leaves in autumn.

"You baby," Mimi accused, giggling. "It'll only be a little while. You're gonna be so distracted by that guitar that I'll end up cutting your ear off."

"Yikes," Mark commented. "Let's have a close-up on the ear hacker, the beautiful Mimi Marquez-Davis…" Mimi gave the camera a cute little grin with her nose crinkled up, like what a kid or a rabbit would do.

_Shwik shwik!_

"You know, if Collins were here, he'd have probably be the one cutting Roger's hair," Mark said. Collins had left yesterday for NYU, when he'd made sure everything really _was _okay. Mark had actually wanted him to suspect something, anything, or to get a whiff of what was really going on, but Collins hadn't. Roger had put up a terrifically convincing act of him being okay. Collins had left, smiling and whistling, assured that everything was fine.

"Oh yeah, he used to be a barber during his college days, to pay the bill y'know…" Roger supplied. "Damn, I wish he didn't have to leave so quickly."

Mark set the camera down to wound it up, only half-absorbing everything Roger was saying. It was his way of detachmenet, he guessed. Besides, he didn't want to analyze too much everything that came out of Roger's mouth. With the secret in hand, most of what Mark heard from him seemed to have a double meaning, but he could be wrong. He watched instead as Dodge sniffed around the area where Roger was having his haircut. The puppy poked at tufts of hair on the floor with his paws, growling softly at it. Mark noticed Dodge had actually taken on some of Roger's characteristics already, making him think that if Rog were a dog, Dodge would be him. Except for the fact that Dodge was actually fat. He was the healthiest one in the whole loft, thanks to his steady stream of dog food as supplied by Maureen and Joanne.

"Hello, Dodger, hi baby…" Mimi cooed as she cut. Mark reached down and got Dodge in his arms.

"Oooh, you're heavy," he commented. "Hey Dodge, you little rascal…"

He enjoyed the feeling of having Dodge in his arms. The warm, familiar weight was nice. He glanced up at Roger, who looked back at them in a funny way, like he'd suddenly realized something.

"When did you start liking dogs again?" he asked. "I thought Achilles was enough to satisfy you of your dog craving for a lifetime."

"Dodge is different," Mark replied.

"Well…at least you're not such a chicken anymore. Dodge can be good company. You and him will make great buds," Roger smiled. Mark looked down at the floor. Shit, why did Roger have to say that? He tried to compel himself to regard Roger's comment as nothing, since it probably was (or it may have been just exactly what he thought Roger meant, but he really didn't want to think about that), but it stuck to his head. Damn it. Dodge squirmed in his arms so Mark had to set him back down.

_Shwik shwik!_

"How short do you want it, hon?" Mimi suddenly asked. Mark looked up again but avoided Roger's face. Mimi had hacked through like half of the original length and had managed to get Roger's hair quite like the style he had had during his April days, which was longer than Mark's own hair but still, technically, short. Mark watched as Roger took a look at himself in the mirror, then saw as the musician internally cringed. Roger didn't show it in an obvious manner, but Mark knew the musician didn't want his hair back to the way it was when April had still been in the picture.

"Can you make it shorter, Meems?" Roger asked. Mimi frowned.

"Like, Angel short?" she asked, looking a little pensive about the idea. She'd cut Angel's hair too. Roger shook his head.

"Not that short, but one almost like that. I still want some of my hair there. I just want it short enough for me not to style it or anything anymore."

"You aren't going back to your Scarsdale haircut, are you?" Mark asked. Scarsdale haircuts were pretty generic for boys: they always had to be short, neat and styled in a 'proper' manner, meaning the gel had to be laid on thick. Both Roger's parents had been strict followers of that rule.

"I may be…" Roger grinned, his eyes gleaming. "Minus the damned gel, of course…hated that shit."

"I thought the reason why you grew your hair long was that you wanted to break loose from that crap," Mark remarked.

"Yeah, but my Mom never liked me having my hair long so…" Roger shrugged. "I figured I'd go back to that. Saves me time anyway. I gotta look good for my baby, and my Momma since she sees me now every day…"

He gave a funny smile that Mark didn't really understand the meaning of.

'You're sweet, hon." Mimi smiled. "I think I got what you want."

_Shwik shwik!_

"Don't move your head around so much, babe," Mimi scolded gently. Mark turned the camera on again.

"My neck's starting to itch…" Roger scratched the side of his neck with a finger, loosening the knot the sheet made. The sheet inched downwards his chest.

"_Ay ya, _Roger," Mimi sighed. "You're worse than my little brother when I cut _his _hair. You're gonna itch more now since you've exposed your neck."

She stopped cutting and lowered the shears to fix up the sheet. Mark watched as Roger took a deep breath to cough, then saw as he held it in, so it came as little chest heaves, making his face go red. Mark lowered his camera. Roger opened his mouth and coughed openly into his fist, hunching forward.

"Oh my God," Mimi put a hand on Roger's back, her face twisted in worry. "Are you okay, honey?" Mark quickly got to his feet and rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he came back, he handed Roger the glass and watched as the musician took a drink, feeling as if a stone had dropped into his stomach. His hands were shaking.

"I'm fine, I'm fine…" Roger assured them as soon as the coughs receded. He set the glass down and leaned back into the chair with his eyes closed, taking a deep breath. He cleared his throat then flashed a weak smile. "There, see?"

Mimi didn't say anything but only hugged her husband and kissed the top of his head. In return, Roger held her comfortingly. Mimi was scared. Mark didn't blame her.

"Babe, don't be scared…c'mon…it's okay…" Roger said soothingly. Mark pressed his lips together. He had to go. He had to get out. The secret about the PCP was about to explode inside of him. He had to go before he totally lost control and let Mimi know.

"I'm…I'm gonna go out for a while…catch some air…" he said shakily. He caught Roger's eye before he turned to go and knew that Roger understood. Neither Mimi nor Roger acknowledged his leaving, but Mark wouldn't have had it any other way. They needed a moment. He needed to be alone. He left his camera on the armchair and strode out.

"I love you," he heard Mimi say softly before he left.

"I love you too," he heard Roger reply.

Mark shut the door.

**A/N: Just a little reminder: the story's ending will be on the same day that the first chapter took place, meaning all these other chapters are flashbacks. And, if you're attentive enough, you'll notice something about the points of view. Hmmm. Something to think about. Sorry for the wait. Scarfy had it right: Mark _is _somewhat of a train crash. I had a hard time figuring out what the heck to do with him. Please r/r! More coming soon!**


	23. First Time

**A/N: YAY! Update! -throws confetti- This is for Laurel Ducky, Scarfy and Persephone-Atrus-Remy who wanted it so badly. :) I love you guys. Lol.**

XXIII.

**March 24, 1991 **

It was raining the night Mark heard Roger singing again. He was just outside their door, fumbling with the keys and dripping wet like a drowned rat because of the sudden downpour, when he first heard it. At first he thought Roger was talking to someone (though he questioned who at first since Mimi was already supposed to be in class), but then he heard the strains from the trusty Fender.

"…_and this is how the story goes,_

_where those two good kids have gone_

_I'm sure no one knows…_

The rain outside was deafening, so Mark could only catch bits and pieces of the song. But he wasn't wrong: Roger was _definitely_ singing. There was no question about it. A feeling of excitement and ecstasy bubbled up from inside Mark and shot through to his toes and fingers, making him forget that he was soaked and miserable. After almost three years of silence and empty guitar melodies, Roger was _singing _again!

He pulled the door open and walked in, instantly spotting Roger on the couch, guitar in hand, with Dodge sitting contentedly in front of him. Roger visibly jumped at his sudden entry, and automatically put the guitar aside, looking like a kid who'd been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar. Mark saw as the musician's ears turned a bright red, then as his expression changed from shock to disapproval as he stared longer at Mark.

"Holy shit, Mark, did you ride your bike in the rain?" he asked, frowning. Mark shook his head by the doorway, scattering icy droplets everywhere. His glasses had fogged up, but he didn't care. He took them off then rubbed them with his thumbs before putting them back on again, then had his bike lean against the wall.

"I heard you from outside," Mark commented as he approached, completely ignoring the question. He got rid of his wet coat and got a towel that was hanging nearby to dry himself.

"Heard me saying what?" Roger asked innocently.

"Not saying. Singing. You were singing." Mark smiled a little, the first genuine one he'd done since learning about the PCP. He couldn't help but be thrilled. Somehow he felt as if hope had sprung inside of him like a hidden fountain, though he couldn't explain why. Maybe Roger was feeling better? Maybe he _was_ better?

"Oh," Roger smiled. "I was singing to Dodge. He got scared when he heard the thunder. So I sang to him."

"You haven't sung since…Angel…you know…" Mark shivered a bit as he spoke. His clothes were clinging to him from head to toe.

"I know." Roger said flatly. Then, like a sudden burst of sunshine through a heavy cloud, his expression changed and he laughed as he surveyed Mark. "Can't you change your clothes first, you dweeb? And you lecture me about taking care of myself."

Roger had a point. Mark retreated into his room and got fresh clothes to change into. As he laid them out on the bed, he heard Roger strumming outside. Quickly, Mark threw on the clothes and crept to his bedroom door, opening it slowly and softly just in case Roger was going to be shy again and stop singing the minute he knew Mark was listening. The damned rain was still loud, but with the door open, Mark could hear the song a little bit better. He pressed the side of his face against the doorframe, his glasses still askew on his face from putting on a dry shirt. He could see the top of Roger's head, topped with the new haircut, bowed down over the guitar and watched as the musician's fingers nimbly danced over the strings. They were producing a happy rock melody, one of those types that made him want to tap his foot or bop his head. Mark couldn't believe his ears. Roger Davis had actually written something upbeat, something _cheerful_ sounding.

Then he sang, in that trembly growly style Mark had missed hearing and that only Roger knew how to do.

"_Well you and me we've knocked about town,_

_Spendin' a dollar on giant ice-creams and_

_Burstin' balloons or chasin' our dreams_

_Of being who knows._

_We're countin' the clouds in the big blue sky, _

_And there's dirt on our Ralph Laurens_

_As we run down the fields after airborne baseballs_

_Goin' off farther than we can go._

_After that came raidin' your Dad and mine's stash,_

_Then gettin' some A's in Math after that;_

_Swingin' our uniforms round our heads like a coupl'a_

_Who knows…_

_There's racin' our cars down the wide road,_

_Yellin' our heads off to the wind._

_Sharin' stories of first kisses and loves,_

_Feelin' it to the tips of our toes._

The guitar playing slowed, and Roger stopped strumming, as if to sing a capella.

_Well we ain't little boys no more, that old town's far away,_

_And this is how the story goes._

_Where those two good kids have gone and what they've done_

_I'm sure no one knows._

After 'knows', the melody sounded again, fast happy notes dancing off of Roger's fingers.

_But it's not the end, oh no my friend;_

_Word is out on the streets _

_that it's at my place after nine we'll meet_

_to dig up some grub, then maybe swap a few laughs_

_who knows…_

_These times, I can say, these times_

_With you,_

_Even with all this mess we're still goin' through,_

_Have been the best ones in my life._

_That's what I know._"

The guitar playing stopped and Mark licked his lips, knowing fully well what the song was about, but before he could react, Roger spoke up.

"You know…if there's one thing about being friends with someone for so long, it's knowing exactly what they'll do given a situation," he said simply, without looking up. Then, Mark saw as Roger lifted his head and looked directly at him, as if he'd known all along that he'd been there. A smile slowly spread across the musician's face. "I knew you'd be there."

Mark felt himself tense up then felt as his face went red. He didn't know what to say, both for the song and the fact that Roger had caught him listening. He didn't know why it was such a big deal, catching Roger singing, since Mark _had _heard him sing a billion times before in the past…but this…this was different. He felt as though he'd intruded on something, as if he'd entered Roger's private thoughts. This was a different song, a different Roger. This was a Roger he'd never seen before and it scared him, funnily enough.

"I…I…I'm sorry…."

He tried to move away from the door and close it, or to just even move, but he couldn't. The rain fell harder outside. _Perfect, just perfect for the scenario_, Mark thought wryly.

"Hey, man, s'okay. Don't look so scared or anything. C'mon, like you've never heard me before…."

Mark swallowed. "You…you sound great. The song's great."

He wasn't just saying it. The song was awesome. Roger looked as uncomfortable as he felt, but he managed a smile.

"Thanks," he said. He held his guitar close to him and reached out to pat Dodge, who looked completely content just sitting there. Mark rubbed his hands together. He compelled himself to say something, _anything. _

"So…what's it called?" he asked, mustering a grin. "Wait, lemme guess: 'Who Knows'."

Roger was predictable that way. His songs (well, at least the ones he'd heard Roger sing in public; he didn't know about all the others Roger never chose to perform) usually had a repetitive line or a recurring theme, and as a result that was the one he'd put in as the title. 'Your Eyes' was a prime example.

Roger laughed, the first laugh Mark heard from him in a while. It was short and had him coughing a little, but it was still an outburst of amusement. Mark had to grin, even a little.

"You know me too well, Marky," Roger remarked as he flopped back on the couch.

"Did you take your…" Mark suddenly remembered.

"Yeah yeah," Roger waved the matter off. "Taste disgusting, all of them. You can count the pills if you want. To see if I really did take 'em, in case you want to be sure."

"Nah…I trust you," Mark replied quietly. This was actually the only time he'd said it (about him trusting Roger), after so many years of knowing Roger, and he really meant it. The musician had done so many things in the past that would make any normal person lose their trust in him, but Mark wasn't one of them. What he saw in front of him, what he'd always seen, was a guy who, even after every single thing he'd done wrong, was still willing to admit that he'd been stupid and would do better when given a second chance. Roger had done it with April, with drugs, with everything. Mark was a little uncomfortable admitting it. This wasn't their thing because they usually just took everything as mutually understood. But he knew Roger needed to hear it.

"That…is the first time anyone's told me that," Roger grinned. "You're not just saying it, are you?"

"No…No…I really do trust you. About everything. I swear," Mark interjected. He remembered the song Roger had sung. "I feel the same way, like what you said in the song. These times…have been _the _best ones I've known…I _will _ever know. Even with…" he meant to say 'PCP and shit' but finished it off instead with "…everything."

Detach. Detach

Mark wanted to go and lock himself in his room, the excitement from hearing Roger's song dwindling. Roger was not, and will never be, okay. He couldn't do this. He was supposed to have learned to let go of Roger already. _Numb yourself. _

He watched as Roger rubbed his face with his hand then saw as his best friend gave him a sad, knowing smile.

"I'm sorry…"

Mark cut him off. No, he didn't want it. He didn't want any more guilt trips or drama. He just wanted to take this thing as it was, as fucked up as it was, and deal with it.

"No, Roger. Stop. Don't be," he said, forcing his voice to sound stronger. "We'll get through this. _I'll _get through this. I promise. I will, I will, Rog. I don't…I feel like I'm killing you already the more I try to numb myself _now. _And it sucks. It really does. But there's nothing I can do, right? I know that…I accept it…"

Roger was quiet and looked contemplatively at him.

"You should be a fucking saint, Mark Cohen," were the only words the musician uttered, with more than a hint of gratitude and teasing in his voice. His best friend's face was stretched into a wide devilish grin, like the old Roger used to have.

Mark couldn't help it. A smile quickly spread across his face and he started laughing. What surprised him more was that he started crying too. Giggles escaped his throat the same time tears cascaded down his cheeks. He felt Roger's arms around him as he gave the filmmaker a side hug.

"You crybaby," Roger said softly, but he was crying too.

"Shut the fuck up," Mark returned, hiccupping. He held on to Roger tight, as if he was afraid he was going to disappear any second.

"Don't worry man…" the musician promised. "I'll watch over you…I'll never leave you alone."

"If you show up as a fucking ghost and scare the shit out of me, Davis, I will personally go to wherever you are and kick your sorry ass."

It was a weird situation. There they were, laughing and crying at the same time, with their arms over each other's shoulders. Mark wanted to pull away, but he didn't. He felt as Roger ruffled his hair then turned the ruffle into a nuclear noogie.

"OH SHIT!" Mark laughed. "OW!"

He tried to get back at Roger but the latter was bigger than he was, which was still an advantage even though he wasn't as strong anymore. Mark failed miserably, but he felt absolutely better at the end of it.

"Tomorrow we're having some fun," Roger promised breathlessly. "Hell, you of all people deserve it. And no backing out."

Mark watched as he started to go back to the couch and picked up Dodge in his arms.

"Not anything strenuous, Rog…"

"No no no, we can have fun right here in the loft. Just you, me, Meems…" Dodge barked. "And good old Dodge here. We'll have a blast."

Mark shrugged, smiling. He didn't feel as though he was carrying the whole world on his shoulders anymore. "Okay. Sure."

"Anyway, I'm gong to bed. I'm beat." Roger placed a hand on top of his head and ruffled his own short hair. "You feel better now?"

Good old Roger. "Yeah. I do. Really."

Roger grinned. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow,"

Mark watched him as he started towards his and Mimi's bedroom. Before he could get there, however, he turned around again.

"Oh, and the song isn't 'Who Knows'…" Roger said. "It's called 'For Mark'."

Another sneaky smile.

"_You _brought my song back, you little geek. I didn't forget, man, though you obviously did. Happy birthday."

It was there that Mark noticed the blinking answering machine, signaling messages (which weren't supposed to be there since Roger and Mimi had been home); remembered why he'd felt like there was something different that morning, like he was forgetting something that was going to happen (he'd brushed it off as paranoia); why, when he'd woken up, there was a breakfast of bacon and pancakes waiting for him (he'd thought Mimi was just being nice).

"We'll get drunk and cheesy tomorrow with the guys, I promise," He heard Roger say.

Mark could have smacked himself on the head. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but his breath got caught in his throat. Roger was almost at their bedroom door.

"That…was the best birthday present I've ever gotten," he finally managed to say. "Thanks, Rog…."

"I love you too, man," Roger returned cheekily. "See you in the morning."

Then he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Mark to sit down beside the answering machine and hear all the heartfelt birthday messages everyone had left him.


	24. Happy Days Are Here Again

**A/N: I'm getting this one done first before I continue with my other story, 'Exclusively Scarsdale'. I tend to mix them up and end up confusing myself. Hahaha.**

XXIV.

**March 25, 1991 **

They had their usual gathering in celebration of Mark's birthday (Roger still couldn't believe Mark had forgotten his own birthday, but who could blame the guy, right? He was practically Atlas). All three women in the group made an effort to make Mark's favorite foods (kosher or not, since food was food and even Mark had agreed to it) and Collins had even gone out of his way to buy a cake for the scrawny filmmaker. When dinner was over and done with, the philosopher brought out the small chocolate cake with the words "Happy Birthday, Mark!" squiggled all over the top in white icing. Roger got a hold of his guitar and played a rock version of the old 'Happy Birthday To You' song. As a favor for his old bud (since he'd never _ever _do it for anyone else), he sang to it too, in his own rock-and-roll style.

"_Happy birthdayyyy…toooooo…youuuuuuuuu!" _Roger finished, belting the 'You' with a high note. Collins burst into guffaws and so did Maureen. When he finished, Mimi rewarded him with a kiss.

"Make a wish, Marky!" Joanne said as she held Mark's camera, filming the whole thing. Roger watched as Mark closed his eyes for a few moments before taking a big breath and blowing all 27 candles out on the cake.

"Wow, when did you become Superman, huh?" Roger teased. "Some lung power you got there."

"Anyone still want a piece of the cake? If you're lucky you might get one with Mark's saliva," Collins said in a singsong voice. Mark reached out and mock-punched him. "Just playin' with you, boy. And we still love you, even if you soak your own birthday cake in spit."

"Awww, Col," Mark laughed.

It was a riot. For the first time in a long while, the loft was filled with laughter and noise again. Roger grinned to himself. Over the course of the day they'd had drinking games (which was a problem because Dodge kept trying to drink the Stoli from the cups set on the floor), card games, Charades and all sorts of stuff and he was glad Mark was finally lightening up. He'd kept laughing and joking around, like it was old times and like nothing was wrong, and Roger was thankful for it. He was also thankful that he felt great. Better than he'd felt in days. He should be, given that it was his best friend's birthday and all. The _last, _he might add, that he, Roger, was ever going to get to attend, whether he liked it or not.

"So Collins," Joanne whipped around and pointed the camera at the philosopher's face. "What message do you want to give Mark on his birthday?"

"It ain't over 'til it's over, boy!" Collins said gleefully into the camera. "27 years…damn, you're more than a quarter of a century years old. Find yourself someone and be happy, all right? What's wrong with you? Maybe you're like Angel and me, eh…?" Collins laughed and winked. "Anyway, whatever you are and whatever you're gonna be, we'll always be there for you, 'kay? To Stoli!"

Roger burst out laughing as he listened to Collins. Collins was either high or drunk or both. The huge man had stretched himself out on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, blowing lazy circles into the air with his cigarette.

"You, girl! Mimi!" The camera was in Mimi's face now, who sat beside Roger, Dodge sitting comfortably in her lap.

"I love you, Mark!" Mimi squealed. "You tell me if any girl breaks your heart and I'll personally kick her ass, okay?"

"You should kick Maureen's ass, then!" Collins boomed from the sofa before he burst out laughing again. Mimi opened her mouth wide and laughed, making Dodge yap at the sudden outburst.

"Oh my God, oh yeah! Well, except Maureen, of course. Y'all know I can't win in a fight with her. Happy birthday!"

"Roger with the new sexy haircut!" commanded Joanne, whipping the camera to the side.

"Aw no, I'm not good when it comes to these things…" Roger pushed the camera away. He felt his face going red but Joanne insisted.

"C'mon, Rog, don't be such a killjoy…" she said.

_Whirrrrr…_

The camera was rolling. Roger sighed.

"Hey man, go get laid, all right? I swear, you need it…" he said seriously, staring straight at the lens.

"Roger!" Mimi half-squealed, half-scolded. "Don't be mean! Say something sensible!"

He laughed. "Like _you _made sense?"

"At least I said I loved him!" Mimi grinned. "Go on, say something nice to your best friend."

The words 'best friend' struck him. Roger relented. He looked straight at the camera and smiled.

"Hey, 'best friend'. Well, I'm not gonna say anything new. Just a Happy Birthday (jeez, man, we're old, aren't we?), and an 'I love you', with all my heart. You were my first best bud, and I hope to dear God I'm yours because if I'm not, this relationship has been one-sided the whole time and I'd die of embarrassment." He laughed before adding, "Don't you ever replace me, okay? See you around, bud."

Joanne smiled at him. "Awww, you guys are so cute."

"Isn't Mark gonna hear everything we're saying anyway?" Mimi asked, craning her head for a sign of the little geek.

"No, Maureen's distracting him for a while. This is our birthday present. Maureen's gonna have it edited and stuff…"

"Oh that's cool. That's nice," Roger smiled, remembering another particular film reel in the back of his closet. "Mark would love that. It's about him for a change."

"Yeah, that boy needs something like this more than anyone else." Joanne sighed. Then she shoved the camera in Roger's hands. "Oooh I forgot, I haven't been filmed yet. C'mon, film me, it's my turn now…"

It didn't take long for Joanne to get everything she needed for Mark's film, and Maureen came back with the birthday boy soon enough. Roger whistled as they walked through the door.

"Where've you two been?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Makin' up for lost time, I bet," Collins said evilly. Joanne slapped his shoulder. "Just playin', just playin', girl…"

"Maureen and I just had this little talk…about…something." Mark said, hanging his coat up (It was still raining like hell outside). The tips of his ears were bright red. Roger saw as Joanne's mouth hung open.

"Maureen you didn't ask him already, did you?" she said, flabbergasted. Roger sat up attentively and so did Collins and Mimi.

"Ask him? Ask him what?" Collins said. Roger saw Maureen flash a look at Joanne that he didn't quite understand. Somewhere between a 'Well-I-didn't-know-what-else-to-talk-about' and a 'It-was-your-bright-idea' look.

"What's up? Why's everyone so jumpy?"

"You did, didn't you?" Joanne asked, looking straight at her girlfriend. Maureen bit her lip then looked carefully at each of them, except for Mark who stood beside her.

"I've asked Mark…if he could be the sperm donor for my and Joanne's baby."

Silence filled the loft. Roger's breath seemed to freeze halfway up his windpipe.

_What _the _fuck?_

He didn't know whether he was going to laugh or gape or be amazed. Was this fucking _serious?_

"And…" Mimi was the first one to come to her senses. "Mark said…?"

Everyone turned to Mark, who was playing with his fingers. He looked up at them, then shrugged.

"I said…yes, of course." A small smile appeared. It took a few seconds before Roger could process anything.

Maureen…Mark…baby…no? Yes. YES. Mark had said YES.

Roger jumped up and whooped. He threw one of the pillows into the air and leapt at his best friend.

"Holy fuck, you both are crazy, but God, I'm so HAPPY for the both of you!" He hugged Mark, then Maureen. "Even you, Mo, you crazy bitch." He gave her a kiss on the forehead, which he was sure made Maureen very happy.

"A baby!" Mimi squeaked delightedly. "Oh my God! That's so awesome!"

"'Course we're granting Mark shared custody of the baby. It's only right," Maureen was grinning. Even Joanne looked happy now.

"Oh my God, thank you for saying yes, Marky. You don't know how much it means to me," she said, her hands wiping happy tears from her face.

"You don't know how much it means to _us!" _Collins whooped, engaging them all in a warm group hug. "Whoooo boy! This is some news! Congratulations, boy! I knew you had it in you!" He clapped Mark on the back.

"Thanks, thanks." Mark returned, grinning.

"We're not doing it until April or so…but at least you guys know it's coming!" Maureen announced excitedly. It didn't take an idiot to know that she was very very happy about the whole situation, and so was Mark, who looked simply ecstatic.

The happy balloon inside of Roger deflated after he realized he was never going to see Mark and Maureen and Joanne's baby. Hell, he wasn't going to see a lot of things because what was two months of life left? He consoled himself with the fact that at least Mark would be distracted now. If this succeeded, he'd have something to live for, and that was good. In fact, that was _great. _A kid would make Mark live again, and nothing delighted Roger more.

"This calls for a toast!" Collins announced, one hand clutching an empty bottle of Stoli. He raised the bottle. "For the celebration of Mark's 27 years of life, and for the coming of a new one. To a new generation of bohemians!"

They cheered loudly, even Roger, who was more than happy that his best friend was at least going to experience one of the things he knew he'd never have. He held Mimi close to him as everyone rummaged to fill their cups with something to toast with. She handed him a cup half-full of soda, grinning, knowing they couldn't have any of the alcoholic stuff. He grinned back and toasted with her.

To Mark.

TBC

**A/N: You guys want more? Take a quickie to click the review button :) The faster you guys are, the faster the next chapter will come. The chapters are actually already uploaded into my document manager. -evil laugh-**


	25. Musings

**A/N: Thank you for all the lovelies you guys left in my e-mail. I loves youz all. :)**

XXV.

**March 29, 1991 **

Roger stood in the doorway of their bedroom with his guitar in his hands as he watched Mimi curled up in a fetal position on their bed, her curls spread out on the mattress and her hands clutching the sides of her head. She was having one of her bad days. Fucking migraines. Whenever they hit, Roger never knew what to do. No matter what he tried, Mimi would always push him away because she'd rather deal with the pain by herself.

"Nooooo," she'd moaned that morning, which was when the migraine had started. Roger had held her in his arms like she'd done with him a thousand times before. "No, please, baby. It only makes things worse."

"I'm just holding you, honey…" Roger had told her quietly, looking hurt.

"Please, no…I'll be okay…I don't want to puke on you or anything…"

"I've puked on you before…I don't mind, Meems…"

"Roger, no. Please, just go. Eat some breakfast." Mimi had buried her head under a pillow and curled up into a ball, making holding her impossible. Roger had given up and had eaten his breakfast (took his meds, too), then had wandered aimlessly around the loft, wishing Mark would come home. He hated being alone when he had to deal with something like this (fuck, Mark most probably felt the same every single day, which made Roger more glad about his and Maureen's decision about the baby; it kept Mark aloft. One corner of the loft was already dedicated to possible names of the baby, where they wrote in suggestions with White-Out). But, instead of moping around, Roger had spent the rest of the day by Mimi's bedside, singing to her like she'd always liked him doing. At certain times that day, the songs had made her smile. At some points, it had made her wince, but she had kept him going by saying, "I love your voice, baby", and Roger would move on to another song.

At one point, he'd risked singing her one song he didn't think he'd ever let other people know about. He didn't know why he'd chosen it, but it was a soothing song, and he'd sung it softly, to ensure that Mimi wouldn't actually understand the lyrics, just in case she wasn't asleep. Mimi had had her eyes closed that time, her breaths coming in slowly and peacefully.

_"I like to believe_

_that love goes a long way_

_and Heaven ain't that far._

_This pretty boy frontman's _

_not gonna be gone long_

_but for now just look for my star._

_Orange for my buddy-boy, for him to smile more,_

_pink for the love of my life,_

_blue for my Stoli sidekick who keeps a cool head,_

_yellow for my drama queen's just right._

_Oh don't forget to send me a balloon_

_and tell how you all are._

_Don't forget to send me a balloon;_

_just keep a lookout for my star._

_White is for my best-loved enemy, who really ain't so bad _

_and purple is for that lovely lady, my Jo, who sure knows fun._

_Keep a green and a red one for Angel and me_

_and a rainbow balloon for Mark, Jo and Mo's little one._

_I like to believe_

_that love goes a long way_

_and Heaven ain't that far._

_This pretty boy frontman's _

_not gonna be gone long_

_but for now just look for my star."_

When he'd finished, he'd stared at Mimi for the longest time, taking in every inch of her face. Sometimes he wished he were man enough to tell her that he was dying much quicker than she realized.

"That was beautiful, baby," she'd murmured in her sleep.

He'd smiled at her gently. At least she hadn't been awake to fully process the lyrics. He didn't know why the hell he'd written that song; it had just come out of him. That was when he'd stood up and had wandered around the loft again.

Fuck, he was scared. What if religion was just that, a belief? What if there was no Heaven? What if Angel wouldn't be there?

_You'd better be there, _Roger had threatened at the empty space in his mind.

In the silence, Roger had received no reassurance.

He'd gone back and had paused at their bedroom door, where he was now. He couldn't let go of his guitar. He couldn't let go of Mimi. He couldn't let go of Mark, of anyone, actually. He sighed, remembering the Nike shoebox pushed to the back of his closet that he'd told Mimi to look for when…when the time came. She'd brushed it off as nonsense.You're notgoing to die until after a long time, she'd told him, Don't talk like that.

If only.

Roger put his guitar back on its stand and went around the loft again, this time pausing in front of the Name Wall, as they'd practically christened it, to distract himself. Different scribbles of names danced on the wood, most were written in his, Mark's and Mimi's hands, since they lived there and often went up to the Wall in the middle of the night to write a name, or sometimes, little notes for the soon-to-be Cohen-Jefferson-Johnson baby.

_Mark Jr., _Mark had written down. Maureen had replied to the suggestion with a _Uh, no, Pookie. You're not gonna be that lucky. I'd rather 'Michael' or 'Zachary'._

_Why does everyone think it's a boy? I vote 'Angel', _Collins had written. _Or 'Aida' or 'Sophia'. _

_Or 'Sylvia' or 'Virginia', as in Plath and Woolf, _Roger had replied to it.

Those were the first few name suggestions. It got serious after that, with names ranging from 'Theodore' (as in Roethke), 'Martin' (as in Heidegger or L. King, Jr.) and 'John' (as in Lennon, according to Roger) to 'Rene' (as in Descartes), 'Karl' (as in Marx) and even 'Sappho' ("The very first lesbian!" Maureen had announced).

He ran his hand over all the different names and words written on the wall, feeling every bump and groove that the White-Out had created. Shit, this kid was the greatest thing that was ever going to happen to them. He wished he could see the baby before he went…highly impossible as it was. Maureen was probably gonna have him or her by that magical month, December, which was great because that was when they'd all met.

_Hey, I'm you're Daddy! I hope to see you soon with all ten toes and ten fingers! _Mark had written.

_Ohhh, you're gonna be cute, whatever-your-name-is! You haven't been made yet but I love you already! Hope to see you! _Mimi had said.

Joanne, surprisingly, didn't write exactly how she talked, which Roger found so cute: Y_ou're one lucky baby! You have two Mommies and a Daddy and Aunts and Uncles who love you and watch over you! Take care, baby, we'll be waiting! Love, Mommy Jo._

Collins, being Collins, hadn't written, but had drawn a picture of what he thought the baby was going to look like, mixing up Mark and Maureen's features. It turned out to have curly hair, glasses, a big mouth and a camera. Roger thought it was hilarious. He hadn't written a note to it yet, though. He didn't know what to write. Mark had written about a dozen, expressing how excited and psyched he was about the whole thing. Good old Marky. Roger knew he'd fit into the dad mold pretty well.

With Mimi, death, Angel, Mark and the baby in his mind, Roger picked up the White-Out that hung on a piece of string from the wall and unscrewed the cap. The words came faster than what his mind processed.

_Hey, little baby. I wish you had a name already so we wouldn't keep arguing about what it should be, and so I could call you by it already instead of lousy generic 'baby'. I'm never gonna meet you, I bet, but I love you already. You're gonna have a lot of fun here. I know I did. One word of advice to you: Don't do drugs, ever. And listen to your Daddy. He's a good guy. Your Mommies are great too. Don't give them a hard time. I'll look out for you. Maybe I'll see you in Heaven before you go. I wish I could be there with you as you grow up though. Again, I love you. Ask your Daddy to give you my guitar and learn Musetta's Waltz. He'll love it. Love, Uncle Roger…_

He'd just finished when he heard Mimi moaning from the bedroom. Roger abandoned the Name Wall and strode over to where she was as quickly as he could.

"Rog…"

"I'm here, baby, I'm here…" he knelt on the bed and held her sweaty hand in his, brushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes were closed, meaning the migraine hadn't even waned. Maybe it was probably worse than what she'd had that morning. "You feeling worse?"

"Uh-huhhh…" she groaned. "Fuck."

"What can I do, babe? Do you want anything?" He would do anything for her. He'd buy every single thing she needed or wanted. "Why'd you call?"

"I just wanted to remind you…to take your AZT," Mimi told him. "Ahhh fuck, my head is killing me."

God, Roger loved her.

"I have, I have, honey, don't worry about me," he whispered, taking a mental count of his non-AZT medications as well. He'd taken them religiously and on the dot since they were prescribed, even without Mark's help. "You want me to help you with yours?"

"I'm not due 'til later…okay, honey, okay. You can go back to your journal-writing or whatever now. I'm okay," Mimi's face was clenched as he spoke. Of course she wasn't okay.

"Maybe you should take some Tylenol or something to help? I think we have some in the bathroom…" Mark usually had a stash or two of those things. Mimi wasn't the only one who had migraines.

"No, no, I'll just sleep this off. Usually works." Mimi told him. "There're some leftovers for your dinner, babe. Don't starve yourself."

Roger stared down at his wife who was busy forcing herself to sleep so she could avoid the pain. The entire situation was breaking his heart. He walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, pulling the medicine cabinet open with more force than usual.

Empty. No fucking Tylenol or anything anywhere. Just a Jurassic bottle of mouthwash. He sighed in disgust and closed the cabinet door before quickly striding out.

He was getting her medicine.

Fuck the PCP. Fuck everything. His wife needed medicine. Besides, he wasn't going to take long. Roger grabbed his jacket (in case it rained), checked one last time on Mimi (she seemed to be asleep) and put on his boots. He counted the dollar bills in the pocket as he stood in the doorway and remembered Fremont, the guy he'd met up with the last time he'd gone out, as he did so. At least that was over with.

He checked the weather outside. It wasn't raining…yet. But it was getting dark. Mark would probably be home in a while. Easy peezy. The drugstore was just a block away. Roger checkedon Dodge, who was dozing in his 'bed' (the crib), a final time before he slapped the dollar bills into his hand and stuffed them into his pocket. When he looked up out at the stairway that would take him outside of the building, he thought he saw a flash of a red jacket and a smile that reminded him of Angel. When he blinked, it was gone.

Without him actually knowing why, Roger smiled before he walked out of their front door and shut it.

TBC

**A/N: Might take a while before the next one, but it's coming! Hehehe. R/R please! **


	26. New York Lullaby

**A/N: 'Broken' belongs to Jack Johnson.**

XXVI.

**April 17, 1991**

It's not supposed to be this way.

Roger is sitting in front of them on the sofa, dressed in his dark green hoodie and sweatpants, moving about as if to find a comfortable position. Dodge is behind him, sniffing around for bits and pieces of food stuck on the upholstery. Mark notes wryly that they look more alike now that Roger has had his haircut. He's sitting with Mimi, Collins, Joanne, Maureen and, surprisingly, Benny (even though they've 'made up', Mark stays as far away from him as possible) as a group, all of them unconsciously having the same body language: arms crossed, bodies leaning forward, as if trying to keep warm, even though the heat's back in the loft for some reason (Mark suspects it's because Benny himself is there and doesn't want to sit through the unusual spring cold that the loft readily accommodates). From somewhere behind them, they can smell Roger's restaurant-made birthday food that Joanne and Maureen have already set up in the kitchen, but they're not paying attention to it now. None of them speaks, and a tension is building up between all of them. Mark fingers the piece of paper in his hands. He found Roger's list of the things he wants to do before he dies a few days ago, and he's itching to ask about it, as well as what he found stapled to it, but he doesn't. He's practically holding his breath as he waits for Roger to settle down.

It doesn't take much longer. Roger finally relaxes and clasps his hands as he leans forward, this mad grin on his face. Mark wonders how a doomed man can look so damned happy. He wants to mimic him, but every time he attempts to, his face feels as if it would rather be torn apart.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Roger speaks.

"Wow," he says with a childish smirk. "I can't believe you're all here…I only wish though that it didn't have to take somebody…y'know, dying…to get all of us in one place, 'cause we miss out on a lot when we're incomplete…" He points his finger playfully. "Yeah, Benjamin Coffin III, I'm talking about you. Welcome back, bud…"

Mark sees as Benny hangs his head almost shamefully.

"Anyway…" Roger breathes. "I guess you all know what this is…what the hell I'm doing. Why you guys are here. This is easier than a letter…God knows I won't be able to write a single coherent one since I talk faster than I think…."

Roger coughs painfully into his hand and Mark jerks automatically, ready to help him, as does Mimi. But as quickly as they came, the coughs cease and Roger slaps a smile on his face.

"Ahhh God, where was I…? Fucking coughs ruined my train of thought…oh yeah…" Roger shifted his position since Dodge was trying to climb into his lap. "I've never been much of a sentimental guy…and…I don't want to make you guys…you know…cry or anything…'cause I want this to be happy still, y'know…?"

_Fat chance, _Mark thinks grimly, noticing that the women are already in tears and Collins doesn't look like he's far behind. Mark himself still looks relatively calm, though he knows he doesn't feel the same way and won't be for long. He grips his arms, unable to release his tension any other way. Roger, however, plows on.

"We all know this was gonna happen someday…" Roger's voice is quiet now. "And I'm sorry. I'll forever be sorry for all the shit I've caused all of you…with withdrawal…my HIV…" He runs a callused hand through his hair: back and forth, back and forth, as if he's amused by the new texture.

April. Withdrawal. HIV. Mark knows he'll do it all over again, given the chance. Lost sleep, near-starvation and frostbite, being dirt broke and practically on the threshold of going back to Scarsdale to start a new life…

"Anyway, I wrote a couple of songs for you guys. Two, actually. I know I've been quiet the past couple of years and I know you guys have missed my singing oh-so-much…"

The teasing grin is back as Roger pulls out his guitar from behind the sofa and makes it sit on his lap. He moves Dodge away before the puppy swipes at it and makes it out of tune. A soft laugh ripples through the bohemians as Roger plucks out a crystal-clear sounding Musetta's Waltz, probably the best version he's ever played, then looks back at them with a playful gleam in his eye. A chill runs down Mark's spine. He's heard Musetta's Waltz enough times to make his ears bleed at the sound of the first note and he's always hated it because of Roger's persistence in playing it, but it's one piece he'll forever associate with Roger and he's attached to it just because of that fact. He'll probably never watch La Boheme again, ever.

"Got you laughing, didn't it? Yeah, you'll miss that soon enough…" he chuckles.

"Don't say that, baby…" Mark hears Maureen whisper, but Roger seems unfazed.

"Anyway, this song's called 'Broken'…basically a thanks from a has-been rock star to all of you…"

He grins first before he plays.

"_With everything ahead of us_

_we left everything behind_

_but nothing that we needed_

_at least not at this time_

_and now the feeling that I'm feeling,_

_well it's feeling like my life is finally mine._

_With nothing to go back to we just continue to drive._

_Without you I was broken_

_but I'd rather be broke down with you by my side_

_I didn't know what I was looking for _

_so I didn't know what I'd find._

_I didn't know what I was missing,_

_I guess you've been just a little too kind._

_And if I find just what I need,_

_I'll put a little peace in my mind._

_Maybe you've been looking too_

_Or maybe you don't even need to try._

_Without you I was broken_

_but I'd rather be broke down with you by my side._

_With everything in the past_

_fading faster and faster until it was gone,_

_found out I was losing so much more than I knew all along_

_because everything I've been working for_

_was only worth nickels and dimes,_

_but if I had a minute for every hour that I've wasted,_

_I'd be rich in time, I'd be doing fine._

_Without you I was broken_

_but I'd rather be broke down with you by my side."_

It's a happy song, much like 'For Mark', but it's a calmer melody. As soon as it finishes, Roger doesn't wait for any reactions, but continues on to the next one.

"And this one…" He tunes his guitar, and when it's done, he looks back at them secretively, reminding Mark of the Roger he knew back in Scarsdale: the mischievous, but still quite innocent, little boy that had marched up to him the first minute he set foot in the town and said "I'm grounded" in response to Mark's "I'm Mark, who're you?"

"This one's called 'New York Lullaby'."

Roger starts strumming a soft-sounding tune, much like a lullaby. Mark licks his lips. The title gets to him somehow and Roger's face blurs as tears spring to his eyes and his throat seizes up. Roger didn't say it, but Mark knows this is it. One item on Roger's list has been burned into his brain from the second he read it: _Say goodbye_. This is it. This is the start of the official goodbye.

"_The snow's falling softly again in old NY,_

_but all the little people can't sleep._

_They flock 'round to the windows to watch city lights_

_And listen to cars down the street._

_Hey pretty little girl with the curly hair,_

_Ain't it way past your bedtime?_

_Tomorrow you can get some drama goin' on_

_Or you can keep the bad guys in check_

_Or maybe you can go dancin' by your pretty little self,_

_But now you're just a little girl like that._

_And you, buddy boy, with the sad eyes_

_What's so bad it got you down?_

_You've got stuff to do tomorrow, you're savin' the world:_

_You can be talkin' with your funny wise words_

_Or you can be running just behind a girl_

_Or you can show all the rest what you see through your eyes_

_But now, for now, you're just a little guy._

_So forget all your troubles, just for tonight_

_And crawl into bed under the big city lights_

'_cause the whole world's just there, waiting for you_

_and me, I'll be watching_

_and cheering…_

Roger's voice cracks, and his voice drops to a gentle whisper. His eyes are red and he fights to keep control so he can finish the song.

"_Always…_

_To see all you'll do."_

Mark loses it as a tidal wave of emotions crash down on him. It's a beautiful song, but it hits him like no song has ever done before. A bittersweet taste is left in his mouth; he not only sees themselves in the song, but also his unborn child. It's something to reassure, he guesses, but Mark still feels the tears coming faster and faster until they finally burst through and roll down his cheeks, accompanied by a strangled cry that gurgles up his throat. Beside him, Mimi sobs, her arms tightly hugging Roger's beloved Fender, the same one they're staring at now in his hands. Her tears run down the smooth red exterior and her thin body shakes with every cry that she utters as she says Roger's name over and over again.

"Roger…oh baby…Roger…my Roger…"

Dodge whimpers at her feet, clearly distressed by Mimi's crying, but for once, Mimi doesn't pick him up. Mark turns away for a moment, unable to look at Roger's face any longer, then practically forces his head to turn back and look at Roger, who's being projected in front of them on the screen, blissfully uninterrupted by their assorted cries and sobs. Roger, who's now only a moving picture, immortalized on film, stuck in a reel no one ever knew existed. Roger, who's now unreachable and untouchable, who's now so near yet so far.

Roger smiles at all of them, wearing an expression that shows his amusement at the fact that now he too is crying.

"I know, I know…I'm a wuss…but I guess I have a pretty good excuse since I'm about to go and all…" he laughs a little and sets his Fender aside. "First time I get to play around with Mark's camera and I'm already fucking up…" The musician wipes his face with his hands but keeps his smile. "I know it's a bit late in the show but, just for the record, today's March 22, 1991, and to follow suit with Mark's style, it's…fuck we don't have a clock in this house. Mark has the watch." Roger laughs again. "Well anyway, I just had my haircut, as you all can see, courtesy of my lovely wife. Mark's out for some air. Mimi's gone to class. It's just me and Dodge, who's here…" Roger turns his head and signals to Dodge. "Still not toilet-trained, but still cute and adorable. Thank you, Jo and Maureen for him. Uh-huh. Yeah.…"

Mark aches the more he keeps his eyes on Roger. If he could, he'd tear the list up in his hands right now, but he doesn't have the heart. He'll never know about it except for the fact that Roger did almost all of them (except for one, which was 'Meet up with Mom', but next to it Roger had written '…I'll do that soon enough'). He'll never know just how or when Roger did some of these things: '_Make peace with the Man Upstairs', 'Santa Fe'…_because Roger is dead, and Mark feels utterly depressed because they're watching the goodbye video he apparently made, on the day when they're supposed to be celebrating the day he was born.

Mark turns away again and screws his eyes shut, covering them with his arm so he can shed his tears. Roger is supposed to be there. He's supposed to be there with them, celebrating his birthday and pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle Maureen brought, because he was doing just _fine_. He was responding well to the PCP treatment and Mark guesses he could've outlived the two months Callahan gave him. It was just like that fucker Fate to pull the rug from under their feet again, because it wasn't PCP that killed Roger but, ironically, something else that kills thousands of New Yorkers every year. Mark bites his lip as the memory of that night comes back and stings him right down to his very core.

"_Mr. Cohen? This is Francine DuPont from the county hospital. Your friend, Roger Davis, was brought here at around 8:30 this evening after he was apparently mugged on the streets...Sir, I'm sorry to report that he was stabbed in the chest and the injury damaged an artery. He's in critical condition and probably won't make it through the night…"_

Roger held on for that night, however. And Mark succeeded in convincing himself for about a few hours that Roger was going to wake up and be okay, but he was wrong. Roger started slipping away after that, even though he still kept on going for the next night, and the next. Collins said it was Roger's own way to help prepare them to let him go, by seeing him slowly die as each day passed. Everyone came to see him, even Benny, even though Roger never woke up. He died on April 1st, before any of them could get to the hospital. It was just like Roger to go on April Fool's, like it was his last joke. That whole morning that Mark spent in his hospital room, he half-expected someone to jump out from behind the door or the potted plant, declaring everything was all some extravagant April Fool's joke, from the stabbing to Roger dying, all planned out by Rog himself. When it didn't happen, Mark held on to the hope that Roger would come back like Mimi did, but he didn't. In the end, they all stood in the hospital room in silence, almost as if they were in a trance, until Mimi uttered the first sob as she went down on her knees beside her husband's bed and kissed Roger's hands.

That same day as well, before they could even start grieving, the hospital confirmed that Maureen's attempt at pregnancy was successful and that Mark's child was well on its way. Mark thought he was going to go insane that day. A life for a life. It was like there was some sick universal scheme to make him lose his mind. He stormed out of the hospital that day, furious at the world, depressed because of Roger's sudden departure, yet at the same time by some twisted means, excited for the coming of his child.

_I hope you saw each other while you were on your way up to Heaven, and he or she was on his or her way down here, _Mark thinks sadly, his fist tightly clenched around the list, knowing how much Roger wanted to see the baby.

That was two weeks ago and Mark has been numb since then without meaning to. He's kept his promise about the PCP; no one still knows and he doesn't think anyone ever will. He wipes his tears with his already-soaked sleeve and looks back at the still-running video, where he can see Roger still there, looking and being more alive than ever.

Mark isn't numb today. For today, Mark slowly allows himself to be sad because that's how he really feels. Just for today, he allows himself to forget a while about the baby and everything else that can make him happy, without feeling guilty, because he wants to be depressed and cry. Just for today, he doesn't fight with himself about hiding, because there's no use. Just for today. Because his best friend is worth his tears.

"…I don't know what day it is when you're watching this…but…God, I wish I could be there with you. Life's always been less shitty with you guys around." A sad expression passes over Roger's face. "Mark, Meems, Col, Jo, Mo, Benny…my brothers, my guardians, my mentors, the loves of my life, my friends…Benny, you are...not '_used to be_', but '_are'…_the funniest bastard, ever; Mo, never stop smiling, 'cause I love your smile (even though I never said it 'cause you'll get gross on me and shit)…"

Mark hears Maureen give a strangled laugh. "I love your smile too, baby…"

"…Col, my big brother, the guy I've always looked up to…don't get too excited about seeing me and Angel, man, okay? Take care of yourself; Jo, you are one great girl with a big-ass heart. I've always loved and respected you for that…Give me a call when Mo gives you a hard time…"

"Oh Rog…" Joanne says sadly, her cheeks wet.

"Meems…my baby, my love, my wife…and Mark, my brother, my best friend, my conscience…" Roger gazes directly at the camera as he speaks, his eyes glistening gently. Mark feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand and his throat seizes up again as, in that one look, Roger tells him a million things that only they can fully comprehend, thanks to countless talks in the wee hours of the night to little conversations over Cap'n Crunch in the morning. "It was always the three of us bearing witness to each other for the past year or so…thank you…for loving me, because that's never easy to do…"

_It isn't, _Mark replies, and he takes his glasses off because they've fogged up, and he pinches the bridge of his nose before wiping the glasses before putting them on again, _but it's worth it. _Because he's never had a friend quite like Roger Davis, and there is nothing he regrets about it.

"I did a list of what I wanted to do before I die…I couldn't do one thing…Santa Fe…" Roger cracks a grin. "I wanted to take you guys with me…like some middle school field trip and all…but I guess you guys would have to do the opposite now…you'll understand later. There was also that item about paying my debts to everyone…'cause I leeched off of you guys for like the past eight years or so…"

_Oh my God_. Mark stares at the list in his hand.

"He bought us tickets…to Santa Fe…" he says, his voice cracking. He shows the rest of his friends the plane tickets that are stapled to the list and they look and mouths hang open. There are six all in all. "Holy shit…how did he…?"

He receives his answer almost immediately.

"My Dad…he gave me my inheritance back...my Mom's too. I want you guys to have it all. Mark, Jo, contact a Joel Fremont 'cause he's the lawyer handling it. Benny, your rent's gonna be paid already, okay? So stick that up your ass and let's just be friends again…" Roger laughs at his own comment. "I know money isn't everything, but I owe you guys a lot, and Mark, Meems, Col…I don't want you guys starving or sick again…"

Mark stares at the tickets again in disbelief. He thought before that Roger pawned something or the other to get them. He rushes to the Nike box which he and Mimi unearthed from Roger's closet (and where they found the film reel on, with a note saying '_Have all the guys over when you watch this, including Benny, because he's still a part of us, no matter how much of an ass he became after marrying Muffy…give the guy a second chance, Mark'_) and flips it open to reach for the lone content: Roger's journal, where the list fell out of. He opens it and, sure enough, there's another note: '_Mark, you keep this, but the other guys can look at it if they want to. Congratulations on the kid in advance. I'm loving the little tyke already. I know that you already know about going to Santa Fe. Don't worry, man. Just go, for my sake. Be warm. Be happy, on me, because all of you deserve it. Give the little one everything it needs. Don't feel guilty about the money because it's yours now. I love you, man. I'll see you…_

"Oh Rog…" Mark holds the battered journal tightly and the words scratched out in the familiar handwriting blurs. "Oh God…"

There really _is_ no other friend like Roger Davis.

Mark returns to finish the video, this time with the journal in his hands. He watches as Roger sighs.

"Someday, this film reel's gonna break or get lost or whatever, but I don't want you guys creating such a fuss over it, especially you, Mark, because I know how much you love your films…" Roger cracks a teasing smile. "This is my goodbye, but I want you guys to see it only once, because goodbyes are only meant to come around once. Burn this reel after you watch it. Or bury it, or whatever. Just don't keep it. Have our memories, the happy ones, and keep them forever with you (like the cheeseball idea that it is), because that's going to last longer, and you can take them with you wherever you go…"

Another sigh, but Roger looks happy now. Contented even, even with the presence of tears escaping from his eyes.

"I'm gonna miss you guys…so so much…I don't know how much of a Heaven it'll be without all of you there…Leave a light on for me, okay? We're gonna see each other again…just don't get too excited and do anything drastic. When you get kids, tell them our story, 'cause I think it's one of the greatest stories that'll ever be told…Promise me you'll keep filming, keep laughing, keep living, keep loving…"

Roger smiles one last time.

"Then tell me all about it when you get here."

The film ends.

**A/N: One more. You guys are good at guessing. :)**


	27. Leave a Light On

XXVII.

**December 24, 1999**

It's Christmas Eve and Mark is standing alone on the balcony of the industrial loft he's never had the heart to leave. The night is buzzing with energy: from somewhere, he hears Christmas carols being sung, from another corner, there are bells and assorted Ho-ho-hos from the Santas on the sidewalk, urging children and shoppers to give last-minute donations. The air is crisp, almost sharp, and he breathes the cold in, whiffing in scents of snow that's yet to fall, roast nutmeg, a hint of pine; his fingers grip the almost frozen metal railings of the balcony. He runs his tongue over his lips as his mind conjures up the taste of Stoli in his mouth, which he's used to drinking every Christmas season since the time they met Angel, thanks to Collins. He watches as his breath comes out in the form of clouds, hovering a bit in the air before melting away in the darkness.

_Dragon's breath, _he remembers with mild amusement.

And, in that moment, he remembers Roger, Angel, Collins and Mimi, and Mark sighs, looking downward at the streets that are littered with couples, beggars, artists, and remembers a time when he too was a part of their crowd, back when life was a struggle, when he and everyone else he knew was naïve, and when everything seemed unreal because they were all young and reckless and foolish and things happened too fast. Alphabet City hasn't changed much over the years, as its tenants keep getting replaced at a rapid rate and the cycle of immortality, sex, drugs, rock-and-roll and death repeats itself. Mark is one of the few 'old-timers' who're left, and he can say that he hasn't changed much either (though the loft is relatively child-friendly and warm and fully-stocked now, thanks to Roger's money). His world, however, has evolved into something that's very different from what he was used to back then.

Mark kneels to set four candles down on the floor of the balcony. He uses Roger's old Zippo to light them, and as he puts the flame to the wick of the fourth candle, a voice distracts him.

"Dad! You weren't going to start without me, were you?"

Mark smiles at the sight of the eight-year-old boy with sandy hair and wide brown, mischievous eyes standing by the brightly-lit Christmas tree he's set up in the loft's living room.

"I would've if you'd shown up later." He teases. The fourth candle is lit and he stands up. "You ready?"

"Yup!" The boy replies. A large yellow Labrador trots over to his side and the boy pats its head. "Dodge helped."

Mark nods. "I'm sure he did." He motions with his hand for the boy to come forward. "C'mon, everyone's waiting."

"Is Santa gonna get me a guitar this year? I'm already eight. He said last Christmas that I was still too small for one," the boy says as he puts on a familiar olive green hoodie over his pajamas. It's several sizes too big so it comes down to his knees, but the boy doesn't seem to mind. Mark smiles to himself, knowing that, somewhere under the Christmas tree, Roger's precious red Fender is wrapped and ready along with a sheet music of Musetta's Waltz.

"Maybe the angels will…" he says, almost to himself.

"Maybe Uncle Roger will," the boy says, as if correcting him. "He's my guardian angel, Mommy and Mama told me…will they be sending their letters up soon?"

Mark doesn't doubt that Maureen and Joanne will. "Yes. C'mon, Luke. Bring Dodge with you if he wants to."

"'Kay, Dad,"

Mark watches his son as Luke crosses the Name Wall, where he was positioned before walking in on his father, to get the balloon that's tied to one of the chairs. The Name Wall is Luke's favorite place in the whole loft and Mark knows for a fact that it's because he loves reading the notes and name suggestions over and over again (thankfully there aren't any obscene scribbles). He especially likes Roger's note, which Mark only noticed weeks before Maureen was scheduled to give birth on December 12th, some months after they came back from a restful vacation in Santa Fe, and is more than mildly influenced by everything the musician wrote down ("Daddy, drugs are bad, right?", "Dad, can I have Uncle Roger's guitar?", "Dad, I love you. I'm sorry..."). Roger's by far Luke's favorite 'uncle', though Mark really doesn't understand why. Luke never met Roger, like he did Mimi and Collins, but all of them, Mark especially, love to show the boy the old videos and tell him stories of the faded rock star, as well as the Angel they lost. Luke loves watching the video Mark got as a present for his 27th birthday from his Mama and Mommy.

"He was your best friend, Dad, huh?" Luke would always ask Mark as soon as Roger's message ends.

"Yes, he was," Mark would answer.

"He was a good guy?"

"He was a _great _guy." Mark would correct. "He was the best pal anyone could ever have."

"And you never replaced him?"

"No one can come close."

"I want to be like you when I grow up, then I'll get a best friend like Uncle Roger," Luke would always finish, and Mark would smile.

The Name Wall didn't actually help in naming Luke because not once is Luke's name suggested in it, but Mark keeps it there all the same for Luke's sake, so he would always know that he's loved, even before he was born. He and Maureen and Joanne were unanimous with the name the moment they held Luke in their arms: Luke because it meant 'light'. It was a tribute to all of them, all whom they had lost and all who were still there. A tribute to that Christmas Eve when they met, to that one year of ecstasy, to those years of darkness and finding and each other again. Luke is Mark's light.

Mark helps his son get on the balcony, the rainbow balloon clutched tightly in his fist. Mark's own orange one is bobbing up and down in the wind as it's anchored to the balcony railing. The four candles' flames flicker in the wind but thankfully don't go out.

_Orange for my buddy boy so he smiles more…and a rainbow balloon for Mark, Jo and Mo's little one…_

"Mama and Mommy are probably doing the same thing now," Luke says seriously, and Mark laughs as he sees a hint of Collins in the little boy. Collins loved to take Luke out on long nature walks, so Mark isn't surprised that a little bit of the philosopher has rubbed off on him.

"Maybe they are," he replies. "You can ask them tomorrow, when they come for Christmas brunch. You can ask Uncle Benny too."

"Oh yeah," Luke says. "I'm telling Uncle Roger how Uncle Benny gave me fifty dollars for my birthday…and how I helped my team win in baseball. What'd you tell him, Dad?"

Mark glances at his balloon, where he's written a letter on in a black Sharpie pen. This has been their father-son tradition every Christmas Eve ever since Luke was a baby. Mimi had told him before about her remembering Roger singing to her about balloons one time and they'd looked for it in his journal. They made it into a tradition right after, where each of them would take their respectively colored balloons, write on them with a Sharpie, then let them go. Mark always does it by candlelight from four candles, one for each friend that he's lost. He also lights one as each friend's birthday comes along. On Christmas Eve, he and Luke, who gets dropped off by Joanne and Maureen at the loft at the start of every Christmas break, always do it together.

_Send me a balloon and tell me how you all are…_

"I tell him how you're growing up, how I'm proud of you because you're cooler than I am…" Luke laughs at this. "How I miss them…"

Mark gives a small, sad smile, because he really does miss Roger, as well as everyone else. He misses the noise, the warm hugs, the snide remarks, the companionship...it's always too quiet and calm now whenever Luke's not around to keep him company. Roger's room is now Luke's, so it looks different now with all the bright colors and toys and things. But sometimes, when Luke's at Maureen and Jo's, Mark still likes to go into the room and just sit, remembering and thinking and missing.

"It's okay, Daddy," Mark feels Luke's small hand clasp his own. "I'm here."

Mark looks down at his son and pats his head.

"Yeah, you are," he says quietly. "Ready?" He unties his balloon.

"Go!" Luke yells and lets go. Mark does the same. "MERRY CHRISTMAS, UNCLE ROGER, UNCLE COLLINS, AUNT MIMI AND AUNT ANGEL!"

Luke waves as the two balloons take flight. Dodge barks at the commotion from the inside of the loft and Mark watches as the two balloons become smaller and smaller until they become two pinpricks of color before finally disappearing into the night.

_For now just look for my star._

"Merry Christmas," he whispers with a smile, as he keeps an eye on Polaris, the only star bright enough to be seen in New York City. Their star, a lone beacon in the darkness. A metaphor to a friendship that's been through hell and back and still survived up to this time.

"Will it take the balloons long to get to Heaven?" Luke asks. Mark holds him close and ruffles his hair, smelling his little-boy smell of cookies, soap and Dodge. A bitter winter wind passes and tugs at Mark's striped scarf.

"No. I bet it's with them now..." he tells his little boy, and they stand in silence for a moment before Mark speaks up again. The wind is getting colder.

"C'mon, let's go inside where it's warm. It's time for you to get to bed anyways. Are you...are you too old for a story?"

"No way! Can it be…you know…." Luke looks up at him hopefully and Mark laughs. He knows that his son's referring to the worn thirty-something-year-old Winnie-the-Pooh book that Luke secretly keeps at his bedside every night and reads to himself under the blankets with his flashlight on, much like Mark himself did as a kid. Maureen and Joanne have reported that there have been many a time that they've walked in on their son doing exactly that.

"Sure, kid. And I won't tell anyone, I promise," Mark says. Luke gives him a grin that reminds him of Roger and rushes inside where Dodge is only too happy to see him. Mark lingers outside for a bit before he kneels down and pries the four candles, which are still lit, loose from the floor of the balcony,wiping away with his finger a small tear he's allowed himself to shed.

_I'll see you..._

He gives the night outside a last smile, before he turns around to join his son, warm from the glow of lights from the Christmas tree.

-END.

**A/N: Okay, first off: THANK YOU ALL WHO'VE SUPPORTED THIS STORY. I love your reviews, seriously, and I'm glad you all enjoyed my little Rent-inspired world. I'm sorry I made you cry guys, though! For the headaches and the runny noses and the embarassing moments from being caught by your parents...Hahaha. :)This is the first story I've finished (yes, I'm a lazy bum) so it's quite a thrill for me. -pats self on back- **

In this last chapter, I know Mark's Jewish and all but I usedwhat I observed from the playand movie: Mark actually drifts. He doesn't really follow tradition, but likes to make his own, which is why I just made him celebrate Christmas, since I feel that he's more comfortable with it because it provides him with a link to the past. And since Christmas is so commercialized these days, I guess he thinks it'll be easier for Luke, just so he can fit in.

My other Rent story, Exclusively Scarsdale, is still going to be up for a while. If you want to, you can check that out as well, though I might have a hard time updating it since I'll be very busy with school (yes, we unlucky ones have actually just started school). :)

Again, THANK YOU! You guys are lovely.


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